


Awakened

by OUATLovr



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Angst, Aslan's Country, Blood and Violence, Book: The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Bounty Hunters, Brotherly Love, Cair Paravel, Calormen, Captivity, Drama, Edmund-centric, Family, Family Feels, Feels, Golden Age (Narnia), Hurt/Comfort, Peter Feels, Peter-centric, Slavery, Tarkaans, Tashbaan, Temporary Character Death, The White Witch - Freeform, The Witch's Return, The Witch's Wand, Tisroc - Freeform, Turkish Delight, Whump, Winter, Wolves, dove - Freeform, the stone table
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 158,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OUATLovr/pseuds/OUATLovr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is five years into the Golden Age of Narnia, and the tyranny of the White Witch lives on only in Edmund's nightmares. Yet the Witch's faithful have found a way for her to return, and now that she is back, she will stop at nothing to win Narnia for herself and destroy the prophecy. This time, she will make sure that Edmund pays for his betrayal, without Aslan there to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return of the Witch

The wayward wolf stamped its foot, throwing down the burlap sack held between its teeth onto the floor of the cave and lifting its head in a mighty howl to announce its presence.

A moment later, two figures emerged from the shadows of the dark underground chasm. The first was ugly and small, dressed in brown rags and with green hair. One of the last hags inhabiting Narnia. All the rest had fled or been forcibly removed to the North. The second was larger, but less human, and more like the wolf. It was mangy though, the wolf could tell, so he kept his distance.

It had been a long journey to get here, and no one had allowed the poor wolf a moment's rest after the creatures working for these two had found him in the black woods with the burlap bag. The minotaur had led him down here and told him to wait. He was still panting a little. He'd been running with the sack's handles between his teeth for the better part of the day, and it was almost evening now. The sack was heavy.

"Do you have it?" the hag asked, its high, raspy voice coming out in one long breath. It stepped towards the bag in excitement. Water dripping from the ceiling caused the hag to look up.

They were safe here, she told herself. The Narnians typically avoided land this far North, plus they were underground. There was another wolf up above, this one's companion, who was to howl in warning if anyone did indeed approach.

The wolf pawed the ground next to the sack. "Of course. I would not have come without it. But it was a difficult journey, fraught with danger, especially getting in and out of Tashbaan. I do not understand why the boy had to be from Tashbaan. It would have been much more simple to sneak across the border into Archenland and steal a boy from there. One would think they'd never seen a talking wolf before."

He needn't have bothered. The hag and the other creature were no longer paying him the least bit of attention. The hag stepped forward and ran a gnarled finger and long yellow nail along the burlap bag, causing whatever was inside to thrash about a little, and then closed its eyes and smiled.

"Yes," she said. "This will do." A look of pure ecstasy crossed her features, but she quickly buried it down. She had been waiting a long time for this.

The wolf eyed the bag suspiciously. "Are you sure this will work?" He didn't want them getting in trouble for this if it didn't work. He doubted their prosecutors would be very understanding.

Suddenly, the bag began to twitch into movement. The hag jumped back, squealing, and the other creature stiffened. The wolf rolled his eyes, and then leaned forward and growled at the bag. It fell still once more.

The hag turned around to glare at the wolf. She laughed. "Of course it will. Do you doubt?"

"I do not doubt her," the wolf amended, looking nervous for the first time. "I simply fear this legend-,"

"They are one and the same!" the hag shouted at him, all in one breath. It gasped when it was finished and turned back to the sack.

The other creature nodded his mangy agreement. "More than one thousand nights I have sat under a Narnian sun, ruled by creatures who enjoy the warm. I will wait no longer." His raspy voice scared the simple wolf, but the wolf thought of his fallen leader, killed by Wolf's Bane, and nodded his consent.

The mangy creature kicked the burlap sack with his paw, and it moved a little, groaning.

"Where did it come from?" the hag asked. It was the first time the creature appeared interested in the contents of the bag. She licked her lips.

"Calormene," the wolf responded casually. "As you told me. I couldn't find anyone until I reached Tashbaan, though, so I hope you appreciate the danger I was in. See, I told you it was difficult to procure him for you. Why, I almost got captured multiple times-"

"Be quiet, wolf," the hag snapped in his general direction, not paying him the least attention. She turned to the other creature and gestured towards the bag with gnarly fingers. "Open it."

"Why did it have to be from Calormene?" the wolf dared to ask, and the hag fixed him with a glare.

"Because, wolf, anyone taken from Archenland would have been missed. They do not value human life the same way in Calormene. And anyone taken from Archenland..." she did not finish the sentence because she knew the human was awake and did not want to give him any ideas.

The mangy one stepped forward, ripping open the bag with his paws. As it came undone, the contents spilled out onto the ground of the cave.

It was a human. A boy, as the hag had demanded he be. A girl would not have worked. He stepped out into the cave, glancing around nervously and rubbing together his bound hands. The creatures regarded him in silence. He was ugly and hairless, except for his head. He was also short, which made them assume he was a child. He was wearing traditional Calormene clothing, but for the turban, which must have fallen off in the night. There were multiple bruises on his body, presumably from when the wolf had dropped the bag a few times. He stared at his captors-for there was no doubt that these were his captors-in disbelief.

"Animals," he stated stupidly. "Talking animals." He had heard of such creatures, brought to Tashbaan as slaves and sold to the wealthy. The Tisroc was rumored to have one hundred of them, but he had never actually heard one speak before. "Then we must be in..."

"Welcome to Narnia," the mangy one said drily. "Or, just North of it. I'm not sure if where we are technically qualifies anymore. It was once part of Narnia, and many lived here, long ago. But for a long time it has been abandoned."

The boy stared at him with wide eyes. "How did I get here? I was in Tashbaan, and you'd have to cross a desert to reach Narnia. That's quite a journey. What do you want from me?"

The wolf stepped forward, glad someone was taking notice of his troubles. "Yes, it was. Not to worry; we took a ship back to Archenland, and snuck through into Narnia. No one even knew you were with me."

The boy wrapped his arms around his midsection and shivered. Although it was mid-summer here, he was still freezing. Calormene was a desert, after all, and he wasn't used to anything colder. This was one of the most terrifying situations he had been in, and he had been in a lot.

The hag was studying the boy. Now, she spoke. "We do not want to hurt you, child." She didn't sound very reassuring and her grating voice bothered him. "We are simply in dire need of your help, and there are not many humans around these parts." Those who were around wouldn't have helped. "If you do as we ask of you, we shall let you go, and provide you passage back to Calormen land. You will also be richly compensated for it."

The boy liked his lips a little greedily. "What sort of compensation?" he asked.

The hag smiled, pulling the skin on her face taught. "More money than you have perhaps ever seen. You will no longer have to live as a beggar in your own homeland."

The boy considered this for only a moment. The prospect of getting off the streets was simply too hard to pass off, and these people hadn't hurt him yet. In his experience, it someone was bad, they would hurt him. Surely the fact that these creatures had not yet harmed him said something of itself.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked. These creatures frightened him more than any of his masters in Tashbaan ever had, but they didn't seem to want to harm him. And their plight made sense. He had oft heard that Narnia was a land ruled by barbarian children and overrun with talking beasts.

The hag grinned. "Let the circle be drawn!" she shouted in that breathless voice. Then she pulled out a knife and cut loose his hands. At the same time, she cut his wrist, and a trickle of blood dripped from it. He did not cry out. He was a simple Tashbaan beggar; he'd been through worse injuries.

The boy did flinch, however, as the hag began singing a strange song. The other creature started digging the long nail on his index finger into the cave floor, drawing it around the boy and the hag in a circle.

This seemed to go on forever. Then the hag pulled out a long stick, waving it above her head, and the boy felt his ears begin to buzz. At the end of the stick was an icicle that looked like it could easily skewer. If the boy was Narnian, he would have recognized the evil instrument immediately.

The White Witch's Wand.

As it was, he just looked on with curiosity as the hag stabbed the wand into the cave floor in front of her with a loud scream. The boy cringed, waiting expectantly for something to happen, but nothing did.

And then the ground started to shake a little. The floor around the wand seemed to expand for a moment. The boy realized a moment later that the floor was not expanding but being covered in a thick layer of ice that was slowly moving outwards to envelop the walls. Then the ice grew upward, shockingly fast, creating a wall of ice in front of them that blocked the entrance to the cave. The wolf whimpered.

The hag stepped back, letting go of the wand and looking happily at the ice wall. Her bare feet, with their long toe nails, scraped against the ground.

One moment the ice wall was just that, an ice wall, impossibly there in the middle of one of Narnia's hottest summers, and the next, there was a woman inside the ice, startling, serious eyes staring down at the Calormene boy. Unblinking. Her hair floated around her head as if she had just submerged under water. Her skin was as white as snow, and for a moment the boy wondered if she were dead. Only her lips, red like blood, held any color. The boy could only vaguely see the outline of her body. The dress she wore was of the purest white and blended fully into her skin.

The hag, wolf, and werewolf backed up quickly, terrified and awestruck, leaving the woman behind the ice with the boy and bowing low before her.

The boy stood with an open jaw, awed by her beauty. She was obviously barbarian, like the Kings and Queens of Narnia, but she was human. And she was the most beautiful woman the Calormene beggar had ever seen. He didn't dare move, just stared at her. Her eyelashes looked like they were made from snowflakes, and her cheekbones were high. But how was she inside the ice?

"Hello, child," she spoke, alerting him to the fact that she was not lifeless, her voice like little raindrops pattering against his cheeks, and he found himself caught up in that smile, unable to pull his gaze away.

The boy blinked at her stupidly. "You are most beautiful," he said finally.

The woman smiled at him then, for the first time. It did not reach her eyes. No blush stained her snowy white cheeks. Other than her lips, her face did not move.

"Ah, but child, I am only a shadow of the beauty I once was," she sighed, looking softly and pleadingly at him. He found himself enthralled by those eyes. In that moment, he couldn't imagine anything more beautiful.

He swallowed. "What...What happened to you?" He realized then that the wolf, hag, and werewolf seemed to have disappeared somewhere behind him. He preferred it that way.

The woman's face hardened at the question, and the memories that came with it, and for a moment the boy was afraid she was going to hurt him. Then her face went sad again, and she looked serene, examining her hands as she spoke. "Those who sought to do me harm while I roamed the world locked me away in a fate akin to death. I cannot escape this ice prison on my own; they have ensured that. But you, dear, you can free me. And when you do, I shall be indebted to you for your kindness, and you shall see my former beauty."

The boy smiled. "What can I do?"

A smirk touched the woman's lips and she reached out her hand, stunningly pale, sparkling in the dim light of the cave. It slowly came out of the ice wall, and the process seemed almost painful. She pointed in a nonthreatening way to his bleeding wrist. Her eyes were wide with her fervor. "One drop of human blood," she told the boy. "Touch me and you set me free."

Her hand reached out towards him, though he was too far away for her to touch. A desperate look came over her eyes but she need not have worried.

The boy did not hesitate to step forward and take her hand. He clutched it in his bloody one, and the blood slowly began to trickle down into her palm. Her eyes were glued to their clasped hands and she licked her lips. She squeezed his wrist tightly. He cringed and more blood began to come out, spilling on her fingers.

It wasn't until then that the enchantment she had placed over him began to wear off and he realized that he knew exactly who this stunning beauty was. He may have only been a beggar boy, but all of Tashbaan had at least heard of her. His eyes widened as they flitted from her, to his bloody hand, to the wand. He could feel his blood squishing against her palm already, and knew it was too late. He had allowed his greed and her enchantment to get the better of him.

The Calormen knew of the Barbarian Witch Queen who had ruled Narnia with her ice and eternal snow before the Barbarian Kings and Queens. She had been the one thing to keep the Calormen from invading years before, since no one could get past all the snow. She was a powerful lady, and all of the world had feared her at one time.

But she was dead. She had died in a great battle between her, the new Kings and Queens, and their creature, that lion.

And he had just brought her back to life somehow. He still wasn't quite sure how.

The White Witch.

She laughed as the ice encasing the rest of her body crumbled and then melted into water, and stepped out of her prison for the first time in five years. Her legs felt a little wobbly, like she had been injured and was walking for the first time since. The white gown she wore hugged her frame, sleeveless, but it was still stiflingly hot.

"Yes child," she dropped his hand when she saw the recognition in his eyes. "It is I. Jadis, true Queen of Narnia." She took a long suck of air, breathing it in, letting it fill her lungs, and grinned like a child. She could feel sweat breaking out on her brow and knew what had become of her poor country, but did not let it bother her. Soon, she would see Narnia restored to its former beauty and glory.

The Calormene boy who had freed her slowly began backing out of the circle he was still standing in. The hag, wolf, and werewolf stood as one, coming forward and bowing before the witch.

She ignored them all, turning and gingerly picking up the wand still standing upright in the ground, though no ice held it up anymore. She could feel its energy surging through her and knew without a doubt that it had been restored, despite that foolish boy's attempt to destroy the magic in it. She wondered how long restoring it had taken the hag.

Holding it like a child in her arms, she took a step forward, towards the boy. Raw fear radiated through him as she reached out and touched his cheek with her hand, smearing his face with his own blood.

"Thank you, little fool," she smiled icily. And then she took the wand and ran him through. His eyes widened in surprise and his face contorted, his hands groping blindly for his stomach. He gasped as she yanked the wand from his torso and fell to his knees in pain, arms wrapped around himself. She cocked her head, studying him for a moment. He reminded her of Edmund.

Then she turned the Calormene boy to stone. Grinning at him as he knelt in the cave, a painful look permanently etched on his features, she said, "Hag, carry the body somewhere the Narnians will find it easily. Let it be a warning to any who see it. I have returned."

The hag nodded, scraping forward and dragging the heavy stone statue towards the entrance, no longer blocked by ice.

The witch turned to the wolf and werewolf next. "Well done," she praised them. She turned specifically to the werewolf next. "One last service and your debts to me will be paid in full." She took a step forward. The werewolf whimpered in fear.

"Tell me what has become of the little traitor whose blood should have been mine." She leaned down until she was eye to eye with the werewolf, a cruel, twisted smile filling her face, and this time, it did reach her eyes. "Tell me of Edmund, the little King."


	2. A Day at Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narnia holds Court and the Four Monarchs are given a horrible surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, Lucy is fourteen, Edmund fifteen, Susan seventeen, and Peter is eighteen. Please leave a review and let me know what you think!

Edmund sighed, turning to look at himself in the mirror hanging on the hallway wall, running a hand through his messy raven hair. He had been out sparring with one of the centaurs and Phillip since early this morning, and had forgotten all about today being court day, when the Narnians brought their grievances and disputes before the Kings, once every month. Something the centaur had said reminded him of it, and he ran back inside, only to discover that it was nearly noon, and Peter was going to kill him for forgetting.

Over the years, Edmund's wisdom and sense of justice had earned him back the respect and love of the Narnians almost as much as they loved and respected his siblings, but he still wasn't sure it was enough. He didn't know if it would ever be enough. He wanted to do everything he could to keep that from being true, but it felt as though if he messed up once the Narnians would remember their grievances against him, despite Aslan's affirmation.

But it had been five years since the White Witch, and the only reminders of her were the nightmares and the small scar on his stomach that would always be there, despite his wound having healed, from when she'd stabbed him. He knew he owed Narnia still, and always would, for his treachery, but he wished someone would at least warn him when public functions he was part of were taking place.

He was covered in sweat from riding and fighting hard all morning, and he had just managed to change into royal robes out of his chain mail. He was still wearing his sword, but he didn't really have the time to remove it now. His hair was an absolute mess, a stubborn cowlick sticking straight up in the air, despite his best efforts as he looked at it in the hallway mirror he had found.

"Ed, you're supposed to be in the throne room," Susan's voice came out of nowhere, snapping Edmund from his thoughts, gently reprimanding and completely hypocritical. The Queens did not have to go to the court day, but she usually went anyway, and Lucy, out of boredom since none of her siblings were around, usually went, too, or spent the day with the healers.

She had been doing that a lot lately. Learning to heal was Lucy's new fetish. It was certainly useful, considering how much her brothers got injured.

Susan swished up behind him in a long, golden, shimmering dress and shifted the crown on his head, then gave him a smile in the mirror, fixing his hair with her fingers. She grimaced at how skinny he looked."Today's a court day, you know. There will be at least fifty grievances for Edmund the Just."

Edmund sighed again, pretending to be overly distraught, but secretly pleased. Court day was one of his favorite mandatory functions. It was certainly than going to a ball in Archenland. "Don't remind me."

Susan laughed teasingly, trying to tame a particular curl just over Edmund's left ear that refused to stay in place, ever the mother hen. "Oh, they're not that bad. Peter seems to enjoy them."

"That's because he's Peter," Edmund snapped, but there was a smile in his eyes. "Don't pretend its normal; I saw you yawning twenty-four times last Court day and Lucy actually fell asleep in the middle of that squirrel giving a speech on how the different types of nuts really are significant."

Susan smirked. Her dress shimmered with the movement, casting gold shadows on the walls, as she placed a hand on her hip. "Only twenty-four? I'd have thought it would be more than that. Or...that was the day those handsome nobles came from Tashbaan, wasn't it? Yes, that would explain it."

Edmund rolled his eyes. He was about to make some snarky comment, but his sister interrupted him.

"Well, we'd best get down there before Peter has all of Narnia looking for us," Susan said, pulling her hand off of Edmund's shoulder where it had been resting only a moment before. She tried to sound like she was joking, and she probably was, but the words still stung. Edmund remembered the last time all of Narnia had been looking for him and shivered. He didn't let her see it however, and started walking, arm in arm with her, in the direction of the Throne Room.

"You think Lucy's already in there?" he asked Susan playfully as they passed a low curtain obstructing their view of the hallway closet, one of Lu's favorite hiding places in Cair Paravel because it reminded her so much of the hide and seek games they used to play when they were younger. The curtain giggled and a lithe young girl sprung out from behind it, her curls bouncing along with her. She was dressed in a plain but pretty pink dress and wore white, satin slippers.

"And leave you two to have all the fun?" she demanded, grinning at the way Susan jumped a little at the sight of her. "I think not."

"Well, if we don't already have a victim I suppose we'll all have to go." Edmund let out a dramatic sigh as Lucy took his other arm and they continued on their walk to the throne room at the very end of the hall. There was a side door that the Kings and Queens almost always used when they wanted to get into the throne room without causing a ruckus.

When they reached the side door into the throne room, the badger standing guard glared at them, but not too seriously, raising himself to his full height and scolding, "Court's already been started for a while now, Your Majesties."

"Oh, good," Lucy smirked. "That means it shouldn't be more than a few hours longer."

"Ah, yes, it took me a while to track these two down," Susan said, casting stern looks at the other two. "I was knitting and lost track of the time. I wasn't playing with swords or playing hide and seek by myself like some people. And I've never actually missed a day at court."

Edmund muttered a few choice words under his breath about her little speech, only loud enough for his little sister to hear, and Lucy giggled, then quickly covered her mouth with her hands when Susan turned and glared at them.

The badger raised an eyebrow. "A worthy pursuit," he said sarcastically. "Now get in there before the High King comes out here and turns me into a hat."

"You know, he's never actually done that," Lucy's lips twitched into a smile at the threat Peter had long ago leveled at the beavers.

"I prefer not to take my chances," the badger responded coolly, pushing open the side door to the room of the four thrones and ushering them through.

The court fell silent as they entered, which was quite a feat for the few hundred people standing there and the couple hundred more standing in a long line just outside the palace, waiting to voice their complaints. Peter sat up a little straighter in his throne, glowering at them.

The herald, a cheetah, shook himself and shouted out as they headed towards their thrones, "King Edmund and the Queens!"

"You're late," Peter accused under his breath as the three siblings quickly walked over to their respective thrones and sat down in them. At least they were all wearing their crowns. He expected Lucy and Edmund to pull something like this, but Susan? She was supposed to be the responsible one, and he had been in here for half an hour by himself.

"Sorry," Susan apologized for all of them. Peter cast her a glance that said they would all be discussing this later and turned back to the people, motioning for the next Narnian to come up.

"Your Majesties," a centaur came forward, and immediately had Peter, Edmund, and Susan's full attention. The youngest Queen tried to follow suit, but then one of her dryads came forward and handed her a drink of cool lemonade.

"The centaurs living in the Western Wood have begun to run out of suitable homes for our growing population. There are not enough caves there, and not enough of us can volunteer to move to a different settlement, seeing as the closest one is halfway across Narnia."

Peter and Susan asked the centaur some more questions about their settlement and the conditions in the Western Wood before turning to Edmund.

Edmund took a deep breath. The Western Wood was his domain, after all. His brow furrowed in thought and half a minute passed before he suggested that a certain number of the centaurs branch off into their own settlement, close to the Western Wood but outside of it. The centaur got their blessing and left, bowing as he left to all four monarchs, though only the three had actually helped him.

The next was a dispute between a black dwarf and a red dwarf. The different dwarfish sects were always at odds with each other, and this time was no different. The black dwarves had trespassed onto the land of the red dwarves and stolen some of their finest axes. The red dwarves wanted the axes back, but the black dwarves insisted they hadn't been the ones to steal them, if the axes had been stolen at all.

Edmund had heard part of what the dwarves was saying and had actually come up with an idea to help, about to voice it until Lucy leaned over Susan and childishly threw a wad of cloth at Edmund, trying to get his attention. He ground his teeth and turned to her. She started gesticulating and mouthing things at him, but he couldn't make hide or tail of what she was trying to say.

Peter shot Edmund a furious look and the boy, looking properly chastised, turned away from Lucy and towards the next creature, an owl who talked about the lack of edible mice to be eaten. Eating talking mice, as most mice of Narnia had become talking mice after the incident at the Stone Table, had become illegal, but not all mice could talk, and those that couldn't were still prey to the owls, but were quickly becoming extinct.

As the owl continued to express the owls' need for more mice, the two wide doors to the entrance of the throne room suddenly flew open and a minotaur emerged from the long line of Narnian creatures waiting outside, cradling something wrapped in brown cloth, and rather large, in his arms. He pushed his way through the crowd in the throne room and they parted before him as his horns came down until he was standing before the thrones.

Edmund cringed involuntarily at the sight of the minotaur. He knew that all the creatures of Narnia were very loyal to the Kings and Queens now, and he knew that they wouldn't hurt him, but minotaurs and wolves still put Edmund on edge when he had to come into contact with them.

The minotaur rushed to the front of the room with the large bundle in his arms and deposited at the feet of the High King without a word. Peter stared at it dubiously, still covered by cloth. It was shaped strangely, and he couldn't make out what it was supposed to be. The minotaur stepped back and crossed his arms, glaring from Peter to Edmund and ignoring the two queens altogether. Edmund flinched under the Minotaur's gaze and turned his attention on the bundle.

Oreius took a step forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. "You are to wait in line like everyone else, minotaur," he snapped.

The sight of Oreius was enough to make Edmund cow in submission, but it did not seem to have the same effect on the minotaur, who squared his shoulders and turned back to the High King. "I think when their Majesties hear what I have to say, that will matter very little."

Peter cast the owl an apologetic glance. "Very well. Speak."

The owl ruffled its feathers and flew up to perch on one of the unlit torches hanging from the wall but stayed silent as the minotaur began his tale.

"I was coming here for a different reason, but that reason seems of little importance now." Edmund swallowed at this news. "I was nearly here when I found that," he gestured towards the bundle at Peter's feet, "in the woods behind Cair. I've no idea how it got there, but I was drawn to it, like a moth to the flame, and the moment I found it, I realized why."

Peter's brows furrowed. Unable to hold back his curiosity any longer, he leaned down and pulled the brown cloth off the bundle lying beneath. He gasped and, with shaking hands, tossed aside the cloth so that everyone else could see. Gasps and shouts filled the room, and Oreius struggled to quiet them all.

Edmund felt the air rush out of him as if he'd been punched in the stomach and felt a jolt of pain through his abdomen. Strange; that scar hadn't hurt in five years. He brought a hand up to his stomach and touched the small, nearly invisible scar that was left, even after Lucy's healing cordial had worked its magic, through his shirt. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't speak. Black spots started to emerge in his vision and he felt sweat break out on his forehead.

To think he'd been foolish enough to believe that the White Witch could be gone forever. He would have laughed if he wasn't so terrified.

The stone statue stood ominously before them all, a boy kneeling, head down, clutching at his stomach, an expression of such pain on his features that Edmund cringed just looking at him. He looked young, no older than twelve, long hair cut in the Calormen style and wearing clothes that looked rather plain. These were the only things that distinguished him as Calormene through the stone. Otherwise, Edmund might have thought he was himself. He looked eerily similar to the way Edmund had when the Witch had stabbed him during the Battle of Beruna.

Lucy stood up, horrified, with wide eyes, and took a few tentative steps towards the stone statue, ignoring the shouting going on all around her. Peter got down from his throne and squatted in front of the statue, examining it to see that it was real.

Susan blinked a few times at the statue before glancing at her younger brother to make sure he was all right. She was glad she did. No one else seemed to have remembered Edmund at the moment.

Edmund was green, and for a moment Susan was afraid he was going to be sick. His eyes were pinched shut and he was clutching at his stomach. He didn't seem aware of anything going on around him.

Standing up, Susan rushed over to him and knelt in front of her little brother, taking his other hand in hers and clutching it tightly.

"Ed?" she whispered, reaching up and checking his forehead. She brought her hand away wet with sweat. "Edmund!"

His eyes shot open and for a moment, raw fear stared back at her before he swallowed his emotions and hid them behind those all too serious eyes. "I'm fine," he said, sitting up and letting go of her hand. "It's just a bit hot in here."

Susan didn't believe him for an instant, but before she could say anything, Peter was shouting for everyone to be quiet. The throne room slowly quieted and Peter stood from his place in front of the statue.

"It appears to be stone, and...real, not art. Or once was," Peter amended, and Edmund rolled his eyes. Obviously.

"What does this mean?" "She's back!" "The White Witch!" "Aslan, no!" "How is that possible?" "This could only be done with the White Witch's wand!"

Peter raised his hands to quiet the Narnians again, and they all turned back to him with wide, frightened eyes, hoping that he would have the answers to all of their questions.

"We don't know that this was done recently," Peter insisted. "This could have been done before...during the reign of the Witch, and it was simply never awoken by Aslan."

"No Calormen people ever entered Narnia before we started ruling, Peter," Edmund muttered softly, but Peter pretended not to hear him.

The Narnians mulled this over for a moment, and then one of them, a dwarf, came forward. "Aslan promised he rescued everyone who had been turned to stone," he said glumly. "He would know."

Peter sighed, not sure how to respond to that. Then, "Where did you say you found this?" he asked the minotaur.

The minotaur blinked. "In the woods just behind this palace, Your Majesty," he replied.

"Do you think you could guide Oreius and some of his dogs there?" Peter asked, unable to keep his eyes off the stone statue. He couldn't help thinking how much the boy resembled Edmund when the Witch had stabbed him.

Inwardly wincing, he glanced at his younger siblings to see Susan sitting on the arm of Edmund's throne, her arms wrapped around him, and Edmund looking horrible. Lucy was still standing in front of her own throne, eyes wide as she stared at the statue. Her healing cordial was in her hands, but she needn't have bothered. The boy was obviously dead before he had been turned to stone, and the only one who could bring him now back was Aslan.

How was this possible? He had seen Aslan kill the witch himself, had watched as Aslan turned from her and said, "It is done." How could she have done this if she were dead?

"Yes, Your Majesty." Peter whipped back around.

"Good. Oreius, take some of your best hunting dogs and follow this minotaur. I want to know how this statue got there. Track whoever put it there and find them," he could not bring himself to say the White Witch, even though everyone knew she was the only one who could have, "before they do any more damage."

Oreius nodded, bowing and letting out a low whistle for his wolves. They appeared at once, and Edmund had to force himself not to pull his feet up to his chest because he knew that would only aggravate his stomach more. The minotaur guided the centaur and wolves out of the palace, and the rest of the Narnians watched in silence until they were gone.

"What about the rest of us?" the owl asked, talking for the first time since it had been blown off by the Minotaur's arrival.

Peter's face scared the occupants of the throne room. He wished the minotaur had the sense not to bring the statue when half of Narnia was in the palace, looking on. The defeat in his eyes scared even Lucy. "Go to your homes and don't leave them unless it's an emergency. Tell everyone else to do the same."

He turned around just in time to see Edmund collapse, falling out of his throne and hitting the ground with a loud thump. Susan screamed.


	3. The News of the Hag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Narnians attempt to interrogate one of the Witch's faithful.

"Edmund!" Peter shouted, and for the moment, the Witch, the stone statue, and the Narnians were forgotten as he rushed to his brother.

Peter squatted down beside him, roughly pushing Susan aside and feeling a sting of guilt. She was only trying to help. But he had no time for that now. He would apologize to her later. He pressed a hand against Edmund's skin, feeling his forehead and finding it terribly hot. He ran a hand through Edmund's hair and called for Lucy, who quickly came over to put her cordial to good use. Peter tipped Edmund's head up as Lucy poured a drop down Edmund's parched throat. There was silence as the Throne Room seemed to hold its breath.

Then Edmund let out a small gasp and opened his eyes. The cheers of the creatures in the room were lost on Peter. The green had disappeared from Edmund's face, and he was no longer clutching his stomach in pain, but the fever had not left his eyes and his neck was still hot to Peter's touch. Peter didn't understand. What had been wrong with his brother?

Worried, Peter helped his brother to stand up, keeping a gentle hand at his back to steady him. Susan took Edmund's arm and helped him, as well.

"Are you all right?" Peter demanded. He brushed the hair out of Edmund's eyes and the boy grimaced, pulling away a little.

"Yes. I-I think so," Edmund answered. "I don't know what-," his legs collapsed under him and his two older siblings were the only things holding him up now. He stared at his brother in alarm.

"Perhaps you ought to go to your room, Ed." He debated whether or not he should go with his little brother, but knew that the people would want an explanation and it was his duty to find one. And if this really was the White Witch, they needed to find out because she would undoubtedly come after Edmund for revenge. "Lucy, why don't you take him up there?"

"I'm fine, Peter," Edmund insisted, but it took all of Lucy's strength to half-lead, half-carry him out of the room. Peter motioned for a cougar to follow them just in case and turned back to the problem at hand-the stone statue. Aslan, the boy looked like Edmund.

An image of Edmund falling to the White Witch's sword during the Battle of Beruna filled his mind and he cringed. All too much like Edmund.

ǁ

"How is this possible?" Peter demanded, pacing back in forth in front of his advisers: Tumnus, Mr. Beaver, the Fox, two centaurs, and a few others. Oreius was usually here, but he was gone with the minotaur still.

There was a healer looking after Edmund. Lucy was with him as well, interested in the healing arts and wanting to learn all she could, and also staying by her brother's side. She'd wanted to come to the meeting, but Peter insisted she stay with her brother. He would not feel comfortable leaving his brother without at least one of them by his side and the White Witch impossibly on the prowl.

Susan would not be so easily put off. "I want to know how this happened as much as you do, Peter," she'd told him, and, after that, there would be no arguing with her. She was sitting on her throne, the only one occupied, as Peter had refused to sit down since he'd seen the statue. The Narnians who had been occupying the room only an hour before had been removed.

The stone statue of the Calormen boy sat in front of the throne, and Peter found himself glaring at it, but it wasn't the statue he was seeing. It was Edmund, charging forward, sword raised as he ran toward the White Witch. Edmund, as the wand of the White Witch was broken by his sword. Edmund, as she turned the wand around and instead used it to run him through. None of this made sense. Even if the White Witch was somehow returned, the wand had been broken, rendered useless. She shouldn't have been able to turn anyone else into stone.

"Your Majesty?"

Peter blinked, glancing up. "Sorry?" Before the centaur could repeat whatever it was he had said, Susan spoke up.

"Could someone please remove that...thing?" she asked. Her eyes studied Peter's face, and she followed his gaze to the statue. A shudder ran through her. She very much wanted to be with Edmund right now, to make sure he was all right. She almost didn't want to know how the statue had come about.

Two hound dogs came forward and pushed the stone statue out of the room. It protested loudly as it slid across the marble floor. Of course, the person who had been turned to stone would never be protesting again. Peter watched it go in silence, until it finally disappeared down a side door.

Mr. Tumnus shakily suggested, "It doesn't mean the White Witch is back, you know." They all turned to look at him with flabbergasted expressions.

"We already covered this, Mr. Tumnus," the fox said in annoyance. "There weren't supposed to be anymore statues in Narnia after Aslan left, and he wouldn't have lied to us."

"Of course he wouldn't have," Susan interrupted, casting the fox a glare for treating Tumnus so unkindly. If Lucy were here she would have given the fox a piece of her mind."What are you thinking, Mr. Tumnus?"

Mr. Tumnus, in his nervous way, clasped his hands together and then unclasped them, but continued to stare at them. "It wasn't the White Witch who possessed the power to turn creatures into stone," he said finally. "It was her wand."

Peter didn't understand where the faun was going with this. "Yes?"

"Yes, her wand," Mr. Beaver said, suddenly catching on. "It don't mean she's still alive, just that somebody else done found it."

"Impossible," the fox waved this away. "Yes, the power to turn to stone is in the wand, but only someone with great magic can actually use it. So even if it wasn't the White Witch returned, someone equally as dangerous has it. And besides, King Edmund the Just broke the wand during the Battle of Beruna, so even if someone has it, it can't do anything."

They fell silent after that, trying to absorb the thought of someone as bad as the White Witch loose in Narnia.

"What became of the White Witch's wand?" one of the centaurs asked.

Peter flushed a little. "We don't really know. She had it with her during the Great Battle, and then Aslan defeated her. No one reported having found it, and it just disappeared. I guess we all just assumed it was destroyed with her. No one thought it was a threat anymore, anyways. It would have just been like any other weapon on the battle field." He would never assume again, he told himself.

He shivered suddenly as a gust of cold air seemed to enter the throne room, then blinked at that. It was the middle of the hottest season of the year; how was he this cold? He glanced at Susan and saw her shivering, and then they locked eyes and he saw the fear in hers, imagining that it mirrored his own.

"What are we going to do?" the Fox asked, all of his breath seeming to leave him in that sentence. His breath clouded in the air in front of him, and he stared at it in shock. It couldn't be so cold in the middle of summer that he could see his breath. Narnians were reporting drought to the South because it was so hot this year.

At the same time, Susan whispered, "Edmund," she stood stock still, frozen, and for a horrifying moment, Peter watched her, as though afraid the White Witch had turned her to stone already.

He turned towards the door, needing to go and check on his little brother, but a centaur came forward and put a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged him off and turned around, a rather annoyed expression on his face, but then he saw what the centaur was pointing at. The council and the two oldest Narnian monarchs followed his gaze.

Oreius had returned. Four of the eight wolves that had gone with him were following behind, their tails drooping, panting heavily. The minotaur was not with them. He had been replaced by a hag, and the very sight of her made Peter stiffen. The hags were supposed to have gone into the North, banished from Narnia because they did not repent of their evil acts, nor of their loyalty to the White Witch. He hadn't seen one in five years, and the very sight of the disgusting, greasy creature in front of him dredged up memories he did not want to relive.

The hag's hands were tied in front of her, and Oreius pushed her off his back. She fell to the ground in front of the council, eying them with fury in her eyes. Oreius took his place against the wall with the other centaurs, most of whom were his sons."You will rue the day you touched me, fools," she snapped, her voice having a strangely deep, cracking quality to it.

One of the centaurs stepped forward threateningly, but Peter held up a hand and he took his place against the wall once more.

"How came you to be here?" he asked the hag, stepping forward until he could smell her rancid breath.

The hag laughed and did not answer him. Irritated, he turned to Oreius for information.

"We followed the minotaur, as you ordered, my liege. He led us to the place where the stone statue was put and the wolves tracked the smell of hag from the area. We followed until we came upon this foul creature. She killed four of our wolves before we could capture her. The minotaur fled into the night and we did not see where he went. He has betrayed us, and was likely paid to bring the statue here. She will say nothing."

"She will," the Fox snapped, glowering at her.

The hag ignored them all as they talked, turned eyes on the wolves who had tracked her. "Traitors! Do you forget so easily your vow to Her Majesty?"

The wolves growled at her, aware of their fallen comrades at her hands.

"The minotaur fled?" Peter questioned. "But why-?" he turned to the hag once more. "Tell us what you know."

The hag stared up at him, and then held up her bound hands with an impish grin. Sighing, Peter pulled out a knife and knelt in front of her. His council seemed to step forward as one, and he could hear the collective intake of breath.

"Peter," Susan said in warning.

Peter cut loose the hag's hands and she rubbed her wrists. He stood, knife still in his hands, waiting.

Finally, she spoke. "I know only this. That Jadis, the White Queen, has returned, and that you would be wise to watch your brother's back, for she would have his blood. I know only that she will not fail, and that my lady will win back Narnia and overturn it in fire and water. I know only that not even Aslan can defeat her power, and she is come to take back what is hers." The hag's mouth clamped shut.

Peter found himself touching Wolf's Bane, causing Oreius' wolves to cringe and whimper. He quickly removed his hand. "And how do you know these things?"

The hag grinned. "I brought the stone statue to you for fair warning. Isn't that enough?"

"Where is she?" Oreius demanded of the hag. "Where is the Witch hiding?" The hag only grinned at him.

"Did you actually see the White Witch?" Susan demanded, though her voice was soft and quiet, putting emphasis on the word see.

The hag turned dark eyes on her. "With my own eyes."

Peter eyed the hag, assessing her. He tried not to let the fear seep into his voice when he spoke. "Put this hag in the prison, wolves. Oreius, send out messengers to the people that they should be on the lookout for hags, a minotaur, and the wand. And I want a guard on each of my siblings at all times. The Witch has somehow returned, and she will be out to get them."

"Yes, Your Majesty."


	4. Braving the Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund grows ill with a strange disease and the Witch continues her plans.

Lucy put her arm under Edmund's shoulders and proceeded to drag him up to his room. He wasn't very heavy for his age, but he felt like a deadweight in her arms. She turned to the cougar, who quickly attempted to help by leaning against the young king. They eventually made it to Edmund's room and she deposited him quickly onto his bed. He fell into the feather bed, unconscious and she sat down beside him.

Edmund's room was smaller than the rooms of his siblings, but he preferred it this way. He had picked out this room the week of their coronation, and hadn't moved from it since, although Lucy and Susan chose different rooms every year for a change of scenery. The room was a dark blue, and the floor was made of cold white marble with a small rug at the foot of the bed.

Lucy glanced around. There was a desk in the far corner with papers scattered over it, an ink well and quill lying on the edge of it, looking as though they would fall at any second. A wooden wardrobe stood next to the bed, and something about that wardrobe always made Lucy feel warm inside, though she couldn't put her finger on why that was. A silver shield with a red lion on it hung on the wall, along with Edmund's sword and a few maps of the world and other such trinkets. He had a horrible definition of decoration, Susan always told him.

"Decoration does not mean hanging your toys on the wall," she could hear Susan's voice now, although the Gentle Queen had not come with her, preferring instead to stay with Peter and figure out what was going on. Lucy's lower lip jutted out into a pout, but then Edmund began thrashing and she forgot her jealousy quickly, turning worried eyes back on her brother.

"Go and get a healer!" she ordered the cougar. "Please." The cougar disappeared.

Lucy turned back to her brother. She didn't understand why the healing cordial didn't work. It did, sort of, but Edmund was still very weak and seemed almost feverish, and the healing cordial had gotten rid of fevers before. She wrapped a blanket around his thin shoulders and he shuddered with the cold air that suddenly blasted the room. She knew she should get some water for him, but she was hesitant to leave his side.

She brushed hair out of his face and sighed. "Aslan, please help us," she whispered hoarsely. If the White Witch had truly returned as she feared, they were going to need it. It had been almost a year since Aslan had crossed the Eastern Sea out of Narnia, and though Lucy did not doubt for an instant that he would return, she knew that Peter and Susan did and were discouraged by it. And now, with this happening...

She turned back to Edmund. She knew he still had nightmares about the White Witch, that he would wake up in the dead of night shaking and sweating and would run to Susan's room to be comforted. Sometimes he even went to Peter, but never to Lucy, so she could only imagine how bad the nightmares were. She had no idea what the knowledge of the White Witch's return might do to him. Unlike the others, he seemed to harbor no doubts about the stone statue. If it was there, the Witch had returned. In his mind, there was no other explanation.

Edmund let out a moan. Lucy brushed his forehead, worried. The healer seemed to be taking a long time to get there. Her brother groaned and his eyes shot open. He struggled to sit up and Lucy put up a hand to steady him.

"Wha-?" Edmund felt a pain in the back of his head. He lifted a hand to it and rubbed it. Glancing around, he realized that he was in his room and that he had no knowledge of how he had gotten there.

"It's all right, Edmund," Lucy whispered. "You're all right." Her soft hands had a calming affect on his swimming head. Gently, she pushed him back down onto the bed. "You're going to be all right."

Edmund blinked at that. "Lu, what...happened?"

"You fainted, Ed," she teased, smiling. "I brought you up here and the healer's coming to have a look at you."

Edmund groaned in annoyance and embarrassment at all the attention. "I didn't faint, Lu, I just got a bit tired, is all. I don't faint."

Lucy grinned. "Of course not, Ed."

"Why did you send for a healer? I'm perfectly fine," Edmund mumbled, feeling that swimming sensation again. Maybe not so fine as he was letting on, he thought with a wince.

Lucy just smiled and ran her hand over his forehead, not responding. The door opened then and a dryad entered, the cougar following behind nervously. It stopped in the doorway of Edmund's chambers to guard them, as was his usual duty, as the dryad came forward and knelt on the bed in front of Edmund. She turned questioning eyes on Lucy as she examined her young charge.

"He fainted during court today," Lucy explained, ignoring Edmund as he rolled his eyes, not sure if she could bare to mention all the rest of it. The stone statue, the minotaur, the fact that the healing cordial hadn't worked. The dryad was likely one of the only Narnian creatures who didn't know about it all yet, she supposed.

The dryad raised a flowery eyebrow. "Have you used the cordial yet, Your Highness?" she asked. She was a kindly pink creature and one of Lucy's closest friends amongst the healers. Lucy went down to see the healers often to study their work, so she knew most of them by name. This one was name Naya, and her tree was tall and old.

Lucy nodded.

"There. You see? She's already used the cordial and it heals any injury. I'm fine," Edmund insisted, struggling to sit up again only to be not-so-gently shoved back down again by Lucy and the dryad. "And I didn't faint, I just fell unconscious for a few seconds. There's really nothing to be worried about." He at least tried to untangle himself from the blankets Lucy had cocooned around him.

"Try to be still, Your Highness," the dryad ordered with her sweet voice, and Edmund slowly quieted and allowed the healer to examine him. "Go and fetch some water and a towel, my lady," the dryad said without looking up. Lucy scurried away.

The moment she was gone, the dryad turned irritated eyes on the Just King. "You are not as well as you are letting on, my lord. Tell me how you feel, and truthfully, this time."

Edmund sighed. "My head hurts," he finally admitted after much consideration. He really didn't feel that bad, and he was annoyed at how weak he was, to have been moved to sickness at the news of Her return, and annoyed that he hadn't been able to go to the council meeting to help decide what they were going to do about it.

"And?" the dryad demanded, lifting his head and checking it for injuries. She frowned when she found none and put his head back down on the bed. He noticed her expression but said nothing about it.

"I feel a bit dizzy and like I'm having summer fever. I might be a bit nauseous. Nothing more," Edmund said adamantly, knowing his words were useless on Naya's ears. "It's really not that bad; I've been through much worse."

Lucy returned then with the water and the towels, before the dryad could say anything. She took them without thanking the Valiant Queen, who sat down on the bed once more and laid Edmund's head in her lap, running her hands through his dark hair.

"Try to drink this," Lucy whispered to him, lifting the tall glass of crystalline water to his lips. He complied and she made him drink the entire glass before she took it away again. Then she mopped up his sweat with one of the towels.

The dryad finally spoke up again. "Valiant Queen, I would see you in the hallway. King Edmund, if you so much as move from the bed I will bring back rope and tie you down." Naya had treated his injuries many times before, and though most of them were more serious than this, she knew that they should tread carefully.

Lucy glanced up quizzically, not wanting to leave Edmund's side. The dryad motioned her come again, and Lucy stood, kissing Edmund's forehead and turning to follow Naya out into the hallway. Edmund's voice stopped her.

"Lucy?" she turned back to him. "Could you open the window, please?" The fact that he was asking her and not doing it himself showed that either he was afraid of Naya's threat, as she had tied him down once before when he was injured, or he really was weak from this fast fever.

Lucy took a deep breath and let it out slowly, going over to the window above the head of Edmund's bed and opening it, smiling at the cool summer air that drifted into the room. Then she left the room, finding Naya in the hall with the cougar standing guard already. Naya quickly shut the door, her face drawn.

"What is it?" Lucy asked, apprehension on her pretty face. "Is something terribly wrong?"

The dryad shook her head. "My lady, he thinks that this is some bout of summer fever."

"Perhaps it is. He didn't eat much this morning," Lucy reflected, remembering the way he had picked at his food. Of course, that was nothing to go on. Edmund always was a light eater.

"I don't think so," Naya said.

Lucy's eyes widened. "You think it something more than that?"

Naya sighed. "The healing cordial should have worked on a simple fever, my lady. And though it does match the symptoms, the fever never comes on this fast. No, something else is at work here. What happened before he fainted?"

Lucy bit her lip, remembering the days events and becoming horribly worried.

ǁ

The White Witch had returned. The news spread throughout Narnia so quickly that almost all the talking creatures knew about it by nightfall. It would have been impossible to contain. She was back, she had turned a Calormen to stone, and that meant the wand was back, too. A hag had even seen her. Narnia was in turmoil. Aslan had abandoned them.

But where was she? No one else had seen her. No one seemed to know where she was hiding. It was rumored that she had taken up residence in the Shuddering Woods, that she was living underground somewhere, that she had crossed the Eastern Sea to fight to the death with the Emperor-over-the-Sea, that she had gone North to the land of the giants, that she had gone to Calormene and made allies with the Tisroc.

The wolf who had brought the Calormen boy to the cave in the North, the one responsible for bringing back the Witch, knew differently. The Witch hadn't done any of these things. She was just...sitting.

She was still in the very same cave she had been revived in, but now she sat in a throne she had carved for herself made of stone. The werewolf stood behind her, hood over his ugly, mangy head. The Witch hadn't moved since the hag had left.

"Wolf," she said suddenly, and wolf jumped up from his place at the back of the cave, hackles raised in apprehension but willing to be of service. She was still holding her wand, and it put him on edge. Her hands slowly caressed the wand as he slunk forward.

"Your Majesty," he bowed.

"Why hasn't the hag returned?" she demanded, her voice as icy as her reputation. Piercing eyes studied him. She still seemed to tower over everyone and everything, even sitting down. Her wicked beauty seemed ten times more potent now than it had five years ago.

"Your Majesty, I...I..." the wolf had only left the cave once, to rally up some of the Queen's loyal supporters and tell them to meet in three days, per the Witch's instructions. This had been before the hag had laughed, so he didn't understand why the Queen could possibly think he knew where she was.

The Queen's eyes grew dark, and she slowly lifted the wand. "Well?" she demanded, her voice soft but deadly. The wolf cowed. "Go and find her, Wolf!"

The wolf bowed low. "Yes, Your Majesty," he said quickly, eager to get out of the cave. He scampered away, past the two ogres who stood as guard at the entrance of the cave, past the observing eyes of the hawks perched in trees that had always remained loyal to Her Majesty, and into the forest, cursing that hag for not yet having returned.

The Witch watched in silence until he left, and then turned to the werewolf. "It seems the Captain of my Police chose fools for his soldiers," she observed coldly. "I thought he was smarter than that."

The werewolf swallowed hard. "There are few wolves who have stayed loyal to the cause over the years, Your Majesty, falling to the offer of amnesty from the High King."

It was the wrong thing to say. "High King?" her voice was shrill. "High King? That boy who sits upon Cair Paravel in throne is naught more than a child picked to be the lion's puppet."

Despite her tone, the werewolf noticed that she would not even say the lion's name. He had heard that she still cringed at the mention of that name, that it was like death to her ears. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Now," the witch's tone became sickly sweet once more, and her hands turned back to her wand, running along it as if it were her long-lost lover. "Tell me more of this Just King." She laughed and the werewolf, despite his courage before the Calormen boy, couldn't help but shudder. "Is that supposed to be a joke? Edmund, Just King?"

"It is the title that As-the lion gave him, Your Majesty."

The Queen shook her head. "Fools, all of them. I should have made sure he was dead. It is a mistake I will not repeat."

The werewolf nodded. "Very wise, Your Majesty."

"But his siblings? They harbor no ill-will towards the young traitor?" she sounded surprised.

"None, Your Majesty, so far as anyone can tell. He is well-liked by the people, also, his treachery forgotten, for his wisdom in their private disputes, which they bring before him once a month."

The Queen shook her head at this. "I will make them loathe his very being before the end," she said coldly. "And when they do, they shall come running back to me, their Queen, and beg for my mercy."

The werewolf did not have time to respond to this before they were interrupted by a crow which came flying into the cave. It landed on the ground before the Witch's throne.

"Your Majesty, there is word from the wolf you sent you to search for the hag," the crow said.

The Queen glanced at the crow with suspicious eyes. "So soon?"

"The hag has been taken captive by the usurpers in Cair Paravel, to be executed for her role in following you, My Queen. She was captured soon after the stone statue was 'discovered.'"

The White Witch nodded, as though she had been expecting this. "She will be silent as to what she knows. Hags are very...loyal. And the others? My faithful are meeting there?"

The crow chirped in response. "The giants are coming down from the North in droves, and the tree spirits that follow you are gathering everyone they can. Ogres, wild dogs, wolves that were not turned, black dwarves, ravens, minotaurs, and anyone else that can be trusted."

"Good," she praised the crow, though she did not at all sound pleased. "The hag has been taken. We must assume that, despite her loyalty, they will be able to extract some bit of information from her." She stood finally, her legs now strong after having to wait so long for her body to function properly once more after being dead, and turned to the werewolf. "Ready the warriors. We leave at dawn."

The werewolf nodded. He did not ask what was his plaguing him at the crow's news: would they make no attempt to rescue the hag? Was she to die and the Queen would do nothing to stop it? Was this how she rewarded her faithful?

ǁ

Once the meeting was over and the hag properly locked away, Peter decided it was time to go and check on Edmund and Lucy. Susan wanted to come, but had been stopped by Oreius, who said he needed to speak with her about important matters of state that could not be left alone, even in such a time.

Peter left before Oreius could saddle him with something important to do, needing to check on Edmund, needing to know that his little brother was all right even with the Witch's return. He learned from a sparrow that the two youngest monarchs were in Edmund's room, and that a healer was looking after him. Fearing the worst, Peter ran to Edmund's room and found the cougar waiting outside.

"What's going on?" he asked the cougar, panting, afraid to go in there and see now that he was here and could hear nothing on the other side of the door.

The cougar merely shifted uncomfortably.

Taking this as a sign of the worst, Peter tensed his shoulders and stepped inside, shutting the door silently behind him and only looking up when he came to the foot of the bed.

Lucy was sitting with her legs draped over the side of the ornate bed, her arms wrapped around her brother's shoulders. A tree spirit was cocooning Edmund in so many blankets that Peter could just barely make out his brother's head of raven hair.

It wasn't until Peter saw the blankets and the blue tint to Edmund's pale skin that he felt the burst of cold air upon entering Edmund's room, and shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. A roaring fire sat in the hearth, and Lucy was dabbing the only part of Edmund's skin that was exposed-his face and neck-with warm water. The window had been shut.

The other tree spirit, moving about more tiredly, glanced up when Peter entered. She was the only one to see him. "High King Peter," she monotoned, and he held up a hand to stop her, walking wordlessly to his brother's side and sitting on the bed next to him.

"He's freezing and nothing we do seems to be able to warm him," the dryad whispered in his ear as he passed her. He nodded to signify he'd heard.

"Ed?" he took his brother's hand.

Edmund's eyes opened slowly, and he glanced around the room before finally resting on Peter. "Pete. Tell these girls I'm fine. They won't stop fussing over me."

Peter laughed but quickly turned it into a frown at the dryads' fierce looks. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," came his younger brother's tired reply, and he sounded so young. Then, "Cold." He shivered again as if to prove a point. His eyes slowly slid shut and he lay there, asleep. Peter brushed the hair out of his eyes and looked up.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked the older dryad as she sighed.

She shook. "We're not entirely sure. We thought it was just a summer fever, but then Her Highness-," she glanced at Lucy- "and I went out into the hallway and she told me about the stone statue today and when we came back in, he was screaming and complaining of how freezing it is in here. He hasn't let up since, despite the fire and the blankets. I worry-," she stopped abruptly, her gaze turning on Lucy. The younger girl pretended not to notice.

"Yes?" Peter demanded, desperate for answers. "You worry?"

The dryad hesitated a moment, and then voiced her fears. "I worry that this has something to do with the White Witch's return."

"You think she's cast a spell on him?" Lucy asked, tightening her grip on her brother as if that alone could shield him from the witch. Peter bit his lip.

"Perhaps. But not necessarily. It may have to do with...with the wand. She stabbed him during the Battle of Beruna."

"I healed him with the cordial, and he hasn't complained of it since," Lucy argued, worry creasing her forehead.

"Yes," the dryad said carefully, "but he was holding his stomach in the throne room and he told me he felt sick earlier. I don't know. Perhaps it is ill-founded, but I find it suspicious that he falls ill the day we hear of the Witch's return."

Peter nodded, wrapping his arms around Edmund's shoulders. It made sense, but the thought of that Witch harming his little brother any more than she already had made him ball his hands into fists and wish he could kill her, without Aslan's help this time. Hadn't she already hurt Edmund enough? Hadn't she already hurt Narnia enough? Where was Aslan?

That last thought popped up before he could stop it and he instantly felt ashamed. Lucy would never doubt Aslan, not for a single moment, yet more and more he found himself wondering when Aslan would come back, why he was taking so long to return to them.

"I'm afraid there is nothing more I can do," the dryad said softly, watching the tender display of affection between the siblings. "Just try to keep him warm, and when he awakens, make him drink this. It will help with the pain." She handed Lucy a small brown mug filled to the brim with dark liquid. With one last sympathetic glance in the Just King's direction, she disappeared out the door, the younger dryad following without a word.

Once the tree spirits were gone, Lucy and Peter got into the bed and laid down on both sides of Edmund to try and keep him warm, Lucy setting the mug down on the small table beside the bed. They sat in silence there for a while, the three siblings, Edmund occasionally shivering and the two others trying desperately to warm him up.

"Peter?" Lucy whispered, her voice hoarse. He glanced up and saw the tear tracks down her cherub-like cheeks and inwardly cursed the White Witch once more. "Ed's going to be all right, isn't he?"

Peter glanced down at his little brother, buried beneath the blankets but seemingly unaffected by them. "Of course he is, Lu." He wanted desperately to believe his own words.

Lucy nodded. "Where is Susan?" she asked after a moment of silence.

Before Peter could answer, the door opened and the young lady in question barged in, her bow slung over her shoulder, ignoring the small gasp from the Valiant Queen. "I'm here," she announced herself, coming forward and standing in front of the bed, concern etched across her features. "How is he? I came as soon as I could get away."

Peter's forehead crinkled at this and he cast her a questioning look. "Later," she mouthed, and then sat down on the now nearly full bed and took Edmund's hand, encased in warm blankets. "Oh, Ed."

Their brother moaned at these words, and then nestled further into Peter's shoulder. Peter reached up and ran a hand through his little brother's hair and glanced up to find the two queens watching with eyes full of tears.

"I don't understand," Susan whispered, not wanting to wake her brother. A little of the Finchley accent that had, over time, been replaced with pure Narnian, slipped back into her voice, and for a moment, Peter no longer saw a Queen before him, but a scared little girl begging him to "just listen."

"It'll be all right," Lucy reassured, repeating Peter's earlier promise. "She can't win. She's already been defeated. Aslan will come back like he always does when Narnia is in trouble."

The two older siblings exchanged glances. Unfortunately, Lucy caught the look. "He will," she insisted. "We just have to trust him."


	5. A Visit to the Dungeons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See chapter title

She stood over him, surrounded by her minions, left hand hanging by her side, right hand clenching the wand. Her dark eyes glowered down at him, and for a moment, his breath seemed to leave his body. He couldn't remember whatever had possessed him to follow her, to turn against his siblings for her. 

It was night time, a night dark as pitch, the only light coming from her, radiating off her. It was not a comforting light, but a blinding white light that made Edmund cringe and curl in further on himself.

"Foolish boy," she hissed, her voice sounding like the hissing of a snake and without the cold anger he was used to. "Did you think you were safe from me? Did you honestly think you would ever be free of me after what you did?"

His body was covered in bruises and cuts, but it wasn't the wounds that hurt him. It was the accusation in her voice, the reminder of what he was.

"Little traitor," she smirked at him, running her fingers along the wand in ecstasy, getting ready to use it on him without remorse. 

"No," Edmund whispered stubbornly. "No." his voice came out squeaky and small and he hated himself for it. In the back of his mind, an even smaller voice tried to reassure him. Aslan took care of this. He died for you, but he came back to life. Peter and Susan and Lucy forgave you. Narnia forgave you. They've all forgotten. You know this.

"What was that?" the Witch taunted. 

"Not...a traitor any more." It was difficult to get the words out. He ground his teeth, remembering who had last been on the stone table. "Aslan..."

"Don't you remember, boy? Aslan died on this table, just as you shall. And I killed him, just as I shall kill you."

Edmund's heart sank at her words. Still, something in the back of his mind told him she was lying, because she always lied. "No..." his voice was pleading. "Not true..."

"All traitors belong to me. Their blood is my property. Isn't that right, little king?"

And suddenly Peter stood beside her, eyes hard but determined. "True. Why can't you just do as your told, Edmund? None of this would have happened if you'd just listened to me."

"Peter..." Edmund groaned as something sharp pierced his side. "I'm sorry!"

"That's High King to you," Peter stated imperiously, and then stepped back. 

Edmund turned wide eyes on the Witch as she lifted the wand. The world seemed to crackle and shimmer before him as she slowly brought the wand down on his unprotected chest. The creatures around began to jeer at him, and he wanted to cover his ears, but his hands were bound. 

He looked back at the Witch who any moment now would take his life, but now she was Lucy, dressed in a long brown robe and frowning at him. He couldn't bear that. He could stand the anger, the cold death, but he couldn't bear to see Lucy looking at him like that. She'd forgiven him. She'd promised she had!

"Lucy," he begged, "please. I'm sorry I didn't believe you." Surely she wouldn't kill him. She was Lucy the Valiant, and she would never want to hurt him. "Please."

"It's what you deserve," she said softly, eying him with disappointment. He closed his eyes as the dagger pierced his side, and then Edmund woke up, gasping for breath. Lucy and the Witch and all the creatures had disappeared, but Peter was still there beside him, trying to calm him down, speaking softly with a hint of worry flashing in his eyes. Edmund froze, watching the older boy until he remembered that it had only been a dream.

It wasn't his usual dream. He always had the same dream, every night, and this wasn't it. What did that mean? He couldn't remember if the one he'd just had was better or worse than the usual. He began shaking and found he couldn't stop, but it wasn't from the nightmare. He was freezing. Why hadn't Peter lit the-

The fire was so high Edmund was afraid it would reach the bed and start burning the blankets. The window was shut now. There was a candle on the nightstand. It was midsummer. So why was he still so cold?

The pain in his stomach hit him suddenly, and he cringed. He felt a little dizzy at the effort it had taken to sit up, and remembered what happened earlier. The tree spirits and Lucy had been worried about him, though he couldn't imagine why. And then it had gotten so cold he could hardly think, and his hands were turning blue... It wasn't so cold anymore, but what scared him was that no one else seemed to feel it.

Peter had awoken in complete darkness, sweating and exhausted. At first he couldn't figure out what woke him, but then Edmund started thrashing again, and Peter sighed. Another nightmare.

He'd told the girls he would stay with Edmund tonight to keep an eye on him. It was somewhere around midnight, judging by the stars peeking in through the open window, and already he had fallen asleep. The girls had only left about an hour ago.

Edmund suddenly called out in his sleep, and Peter realized he could make out the words. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean for all this...please..."

Peter gritted his teeth in anger. All these years, all the nightmares, all the times he'd woken Ed up and told him that she was dead, that she'd never be able to hurt him again-it had all been a lie. Either that or...well, he didn't want to think what strange conjuring had brought her back into their lives.

He'd rather not think on that, either. He had seen it happen, watched during the battle of Beruna as Aslan faced the witch, had watched with wide eyes and wished he could do it himself but knew that only Aslan had the right.

But if Aslan had killed her, how was she still alive?

He forced down the doubt and turned back to his brother. "Ed," he shook the Just King's shoulders, eliciting a moan as he tried to wake the younger boy. "Edmund," when the boy didn't wake up immediately.

Edmund groaned and Peter shook him harder. "Ed!" he all but shouted. "It's all right! Wake up!"

Edmund jerked awake, eyes wide and filled with raw fear. His body tensed, but he relaxed when he saw that it was only Peter. His hands were shaking and he hid them under the blankets so that Peter couldn't see. He was breathing heavily, watching Peter liked he was about to turn into a rabid dog.

"It wasn't real," Peter promised, the only words he could think of. "It was only a dream."

Edmund laid his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes, but Peter could tell he was still awake.

They sat there in silence for a moment, and then Edmund whispered, "Peter."

"I'm here. You're all right."

"You know what day it is," he said mournfully, as if it hurt him physically to remember.

Peter sighed, glancing at the window. It wasn't quite day yet, but that didn't matter. Edmund wouldn't be going back to sleep any time soon. "Yes, Ed, I know."

It was five years to the day since Ed had left the Beaver's house, had chosen the Witch over his siblings. This was always the worst day. The day Edmund had become a traitor, and he would never let himself forget it.

"You didn't give me your usual speech about how she's dead and will never hurt me again," Edmund muttered, sitting up in bed and pushing off the covers as he decided that sleep was useless. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her, eyes glinting, dagger raised above her head, and then she brought it down, down on Edmund this time, not Aslan.

"I didn't really see the point," Peter replied, feeling guilt creep in on him. He promised himself that the Witch would never come near his siblings again.

"No, I suppose not." his voice was soft, so young for his age.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Peter asked.

Edmund took a deep breath. "No." Then, "It was worse than the usual dream. Different." He clamped up then, but Peter didn't press him to continue. "Peter?"

"What is it?"

"You can go to bed now. I'll be fine," Edmund insisted, seeing the circles under his brother's eyes and cringing when he knew they were his fault. He was embarrassed that Peter had felt the need to stay here with him, like he was a child.

"Don't be silly. I'm staying right here," Peter patted his arm. Then his eyes widened. "Oh, Edmund! I was supposed to make you drink this when you woke up." He grabbed the glass of murky liquid on the nightstand and handed it over.

Edmund picked it up with shaky hands. "What is it?" he demanded suspiciously. He swirled it around the darker liquid seemed to fall to the bottom.

Peter furrowed his brow and then shrugged. "I'm not entirely sure. The tree spirits said you need to drink it. It'll help."

Edmund stared at the contents for a moment, and then lifted it to his lips. His nose wrinkled, and his stomach rebelled as the taste hit his tongue and he pulled it away. "It's disgusting!"

Peter grinned. "Well, now we know you're feeling better."

ǁ

Jadis leaned her back, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply. She was not normally sentimental, as she found it a weakness, but the sight of her castle after so long of being separated from the comforting bleak fortress caused her to smile.

It was true, the old castle looked terribly rundown from here, and without the world covered in ice it seemed so plain, and the yellow meadow about it made it seem like an old relic, but the familiar sight of spires jutting into the sky and those iron gates to welcome her were enough. She could see that the courtyard was empty, but she had already known this. She would soon have it all restored. Soon, the Witch's castle would be just as threatening and magnificent as ever, and Cair Paravel would be nothing but an old relic. And she would sit in her rightful place as Queen.

Her new general, an old but wise centaur, who, despite his brothers and sisters all working for the Kings and Queens, had defected and joined her, stood beside her, staring at the castle. His loyalty had been tested because of his heritage, and the Witch had ensured he would never turn against her. His ability to see into the future would be helpful.

A small army was behind them, all the creatures that the wolf had been able to find, most of whom had gone North to the land of the giants, pawing and panting but otherwise staying silent, as the Witch had commanded. She did not want to cause trouble before the right time.

Night had fallen over Narnia before the Queen had decided that it was time to leave the caves and meet up with her followers, some old and some new, but all holding equal hatred towards the Kings and Queens of Narnia. The moon was hidden behind a cloud tonight, and for that reason, the White Witch knew it was time to go. They would not be seen traveling under cloudy darkness.

The White Witch kept her eyes closed, arms out to the sides as if she could embrace her entire castle. "Take it in, General," she said with a cold smile. "Home."

The general stared at the castle. "Will it hold everyone?"

The Witch's eyes snapped open, and she returned to her cool, normal self. "Do you doubt it?" He shook his head. "I thought not. Besides, it will not need to hold them for long. We have work to do."

She smiled. Soon enough, she would have Narnia once again, and those foolish children who had tried to usurp her would pay for what they had done. She wondered if they had liked her gift, the little stone boy. Edmund, at least, would appreciate it. Oh, she had such plans for Edmund. He would pay for what he had done. This time, she would make sure it was he who paid.

Aslan was not here to save him this time.

ǁ

Peter ran a hand through his blond locks in frustration. "No one's heard anything," he stated dumbly, for the second time in five minutes.

The eagle who had come to report furrowed the feathers on his back and frowned. "No, my liege. My sons and I have scoured the countryside, and found not one sign of the White Witch or her people. We have gone to everyone who might know."

Peter sighed, glancing at Edmund sitting across the table from him. The younger king had insisted that the drink had worked and that he was feeling better, though Peter had caught him flinching and shivering more than once since coming down to breakfast and the drink was only supposed to help with his nausea. He glanced worriedly at Susan, but she was staring at the eagle intently, purposely not meeting his eyes.

"How do we know what the hag says is true?" Lucy asked finally. "She could have made it up to scare us. This could be only a threat from the remainders of the Witch's people. Somehow they could have all-"

"Most of the Witch's people repented of their deeds and joined us, and the rest would be too cowardly to attempt something like this on their own," Edmund spoke up for the first time that morning, twirling around the pudding in front of him with his spoon nervously. He was embarrassed about what had happened last night. His guilty conscience hadn't plagued him so horribly since their coronation, nearly five years ago.

Did the others not notice how chilly it was in here? Lucy wasn't even wearing sleeves, for Aslan's sake!

He glanced at Peter, but Peter had turned back to the eagle with determination on his features. "Keep looking. None of the Witch's followers is capable of doing something like this. I need a sign...just anything."

"Sire, perhaps we should go to one of the centaurs of the Western Wood," the eagle suggested. "There are seers among them that might be able to help us."

"Then send one of your sons to do so, please," Susan said authoritatively when Peter didn't answer right away.

"Yes, my Queen." The eagle bowed and departed, climbing up to the window over looking the sea and spreading its brown wings. It flew silently, disappearing into the horizon and the rising sun.

Edmund stood up once the eagle was gone. As one, his brother and sisters seemed to explode with worry.

"Edmund, are you tired? We ought to get someone to make sure you get back to your room safely," Susan began, but Edmund brushed away her fears.

"I'm fine. I'm just...full." He started towards a door that didn't lead back to his chambers. Susan kindly did not point out that he'd hardly eaten.

"Where are you going?" Lucy asked, standing also and preparing to go after him. She had not forgotten how difficult it was to drag him to his bed.

Edmund rolled his eyes. When he was younger, he might have yearned for their concern, but it did get a bit annoying when he was sick and they all doted on him like he was a babe. It wasn't as if he were dying. It was just a summer fever.

"I'm going to see Phillip in the stables," Edmund turned around to face them. "I think I'll make it there, Lucy. I haven't seen him since...he'll be worried about me." He turned imploring eyes on Peter. "I'm feeling better. And we have more important things to do than worry about a little fever, I think."

Peter and Susan exchanged glances. "All right, Ed, you can go, but don't you dare go out riding," Peter ordered. "We don't want you over-exerting yourself or getting into any...unnecessary danger."

Edmund grinned. "Don't worry; Phillip won't let me do anything even when I've got a cold." He turned and walked out the door, leaving his siblings to finish their breakfast.

He made it down the hallway before his vision started swimming in front of him. Wincing, he laid a hand against the wall and clutched at his stomach as a stinging pain ran through him. There was no nausea this time, but he felt as though he'd been run through by a...sword.

He stumbled forward again, determined not to let some little fever turn into more than it was because he was afraid of the White Witch's return. He made it down a flight of stairs and then hesitated at the bottom as another wave of dizziness rushed through him.

Falling to his knees, Edmund rocked back and forth on his haunches, finding it difficult to breathe. "Come on, don't be such a baby!" he snapped at himself, forcing his feet back under him and started forward again.

His head was buzzing and everything seemed off; tilted to the side as he slowly walked forward, down another long, dark hallway. There were no windows, only a small torch at the beginning and end of the hall.

For a moment he was confused. Why was he here? This wasn't the stables. Then he remembered that he was going...to see...Phillip, yes, that was it. But it was so cold...

It was a wonder he made it to the end of the hallway without collapsing, but it was only after he reached the guards- a hound and a black bear-that he realized this wasn't the stables. Faltering for a moment, Edmund glanced around, trying to figure out where he was. He'd explored Cair Paravel a thousand times, and that task shouldn't be so hard.

"King Edmund," the hound spoke up, wagging its tail at the sight of him. "What brings you to the dungeons, my liege?"

Edmund blinked stupidly. The dungeons. That was where he was. He opened his mouth and his words came out wooden. "I want to interrogate the agent of the Witch, the hag."

The hound whimpered and the bear spoke up. "High King Peter has already interrogated the hag. He has commanded that no one else be allowed to see it."

Edmund swallowed, realizing what he was down here for. Suddenly his head didn't seem to be buzzing so hard, and his stomach hurt a little less. Phillip could wait. "I...I am your King and I need to see the hag. High King Peter will understand."

The hound and the bear hesitated for only a moment. Neither of them could honestly remember a time when the High King and the King had clashed over something, and neither were really sure what to do. But then they looked up at the resolute face of the young king, cold with anger, and made their decision. The High King wasn't here, and King Edmund was. Perhaps he and his brother would work it out.

"This way, my lord," the hound huffed, stepping forward into the dungeons far beneath Cair Paravel. Edmund followed in silence until they reached the hag's cell, which appeared empty in the waning light. The hound shot Edmund an apologetic glance and barked into the cell, "You have a visitor."

The hag's ugly, birdlike face was suddenly pressed up against the bars. "King Edmund," she said, cocking her head at him as the hound slowly turned back. "I was wondering when you were going to come. It's been so...unpleasant down here. I could use a bit of company."


	6. To Face evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund meets an old enemy, and his siblings aren't there to save him.

Edmund blinked at the hag in the cell across from him in confusion. "I want to know how the Witch has returned," Edmund said in the voice that few people refused, the voice of a king. He was feeling much better, now. The dizziness still stung at the back of his head, but the pain was lessened.

The hag cackled, then abruptly stopped, studying him, hands clenching tightly to the bars as if she would break bars that had held giants with her hands. "Wouldn't you just?"

Edmund remembered her then, the hag from his dreams who stood at the Stone Table cackling and tying him up before the Witch arrived to finished him off. "Death to traitors!" Edmund stiffened.

The hag's lips hadn't moved, but he had heard the words clearly.

"Tell me what you know," Edmund ground out, reaching for his sword in threat before realizing that it wasn't there. He'd never put it on this morning. Peter would have scolded him for his carelessness.

The hag grinned, cocking her head at him. "And what shall I have in return? Your brother is a much better negotiator."

Edmund just stared at her. "Tell me and I'll make sure Peter doesn't have you executed," he promised, knowing it would be a difficult promise to keep, but the words were out before he could stop them and he knew of nothing else that would motivate her.

"What, so I can languish in this cell for the rest of my days? You'll have to do better than that, little king. Besides, if I wanted to leave here, don't you think I would have by now?" the hag grinned at the open confusion on his face.

"I don't understand-," he began, but he got no further than that before a figure emerged in the darkness behind him and the hag began her chanting.

The hag muttered, a low, eerie sound, and the words died on Edmund's lips. He could only stare at her, shocked, as the words grew lower and louder, whirling around him, choking him. He felt as though he were being strangled with invisible hands. He tried to cry out for help from the guards, who weren't very far away, but no sound would come.

The hag's words grew louder, and then strong arms wrapped around his throat, real arms this time, the arms of a minotaur. Edmund barely had enough time to wonder what a minotaur was doing down here before everything went black.

The minotaur let go of Edmund and he fell silently to the ground, slumping forward and lying still.

"Her Majesty will reward her faithful," the minotaur intoned to the hag, repeating words the White Witch had told him, and then picked up the Just King and slung him over his shoulders. He was quite light, even for a son of Adam.

The hag smiled evilly, but as the minotaur left her in the dungeons alone, taking the boy with him, her smile slowly faded.

ǁ

Lucy went to her bed chambers after breakfast, attempting to knit like Susan had suggested. She'd wanted to help prepare for upcoming conflict, perhaps send messages to Narnians who weren't living close enough to have heard yet, but Peter had insisted she stay inside, where she was safe from the Witch. Lucy had pointed out that no one was safe from the Witch, and there really wasn't much difference where she was, inside or outside, and Peter had snapped at her to stop being such a child. A child!

Peter had gone to talk with Oreius, and Susan was...somewhere, Lucy forgot where. Susan insisted she needed to learn to sew far better, though Lucy couldn't imagine why, in such a time as this. She would much rather be with the healers, or at least practicing her knife.

Tumnus stood behind her, hand covering his lips to try and hide his smile. He was supervising the Valiant Queen, the closest thing to a guard that she would accept, even with the threat of the White Witch's return.

"Oh, it's of no use," Lucy muttered hopelessly, setting aside the shirt she was working on. At least, she thought it was supposed to be a shirt. It looked much more like a shirt before she had started.

Tumnus stepped forward. "I'm sure you'll get better at it with time," he consoled her.

"I haven't gotten better at it in the whole time I've been Queen," Lucy said sadly, her lower lip jutting out into a slight pout, but the look on Tumnus' face caused her to grin again. "You're teasing me, aren't you?" She stood up.

Tumnus laughed outright then. "I do not believe you have a future as a great seamstress, my lady," he said, once he finally managed to stop laughing.

Lucy tried to pretend like this upset her, but could hardly say it did. She was too tense about the Queen's return, too annoyed that no one would let her do anything to help. She only hoped Susan would finally see sense and stop bothering her about it once she saw the remains of the shirt. "Come on, Mr. Tumnus, let's go and find something more important to do."

Tumnus blinked, knowing well that mischievous look. "Like what, Your Highness?"

"Oh, now you know I've asked you not to call me that," Lucy admonished, linking his elbow with hers and patting it gently as she led him out of the room. She tried to think of something along the way.

Vaguely, the idea of playing hide and seek slipped into her thoughts, and she shook it out. She hadn't played hide and seek since it had led here, so long ago. Lucy had never really thought of it before, but she wondered now if there was someplace here that would lead her into a different land.

Maybe they could find it and throw the Witch inside.

They walked down the hall until they reached the great staircase. "Up or down?" Lucy asked the faun with a smile.

The faun bit his lip, thinking hard. "Well, if we go down I fear we might run into Susan, who's recruiting people to learn archery in the event that-," he blinked a few times, unable to continue.

Lucy didn't notice. Her back was turned to him, and she extracted herself from his arm. "Well, up it is, then." She started walking up the stairs, and had already climbed five before she realized that Mr. Tumnus wasn't following.

Turning slowly, she cast worried eyes on him. "Mr. Tumnus!" she cried.

Tumnus was crying unashamedly at the base of the stairs, his lower lip quivering. His hooves scuffed against the marble floor. He reached for the handkerchief that Lucy had given him all those years ago at his side before remembering he had returned it to her when Edmund fell ill.

Looking up, he found the Valiant Queen standing before him once more, holding the white hankie out to him with a sad smile. "There, there," she whispered as he grasped it in his hand, squeezing the handkerchief tightly but not using it. "Mr. Tumnus, whatever is the matter?"

Tumnus sighed, wiping at his eyes and handing the handkerchief back to Lucy before answering. "This is all my fault. The White Witch-I should have-"

"No!" Lucy cried out in horror, taking a step closer. "How is any of this your fault, Master Faun?" she said the title in an attempt to cheer him, but it only made him cry harder.

"If I had only refused to work for the Witch, hadn't tried to kidnap you-then King Edmund never would have-and then she wouldn't be-"

"You don't know that," Lucy interrupted, drying his tears with the back of her hand. "The White Witch would have turned you to stone much earlier if you had refused to..." realizing this wasn't helping, Lucy changed her tactic. "Look at me, Mr. Tumnus."

Tumnus glanced up at her with sad eyes. She gave him a hesitant smile, trying not to cry herself. When are you coming back, Aslan? Unlike her siblings, Lucy had no doubt that Aslan would, indeed, return, but she was beginning to wonder how long it would take for him to do so.

"Edmund would still have betrayed us to the Witch even if you had never found me, and we have all long since forgiven him. Surely you do not think we would not forgive you. Besides, you have both redeemed yourself fully, I think. I've always thought of you as my friend." She lifted the handkerchief to his eyes once more, brushing away another tear.

Once Mr. Tumnus had properly composed himself, he smiled at her. "Thank you, Queen Lucy."

"Speaking of Edmund," Lucy spoke up, realizing she hadn't seen her brother since breakfast, "Where is he? I'd imagine he'd have left Phillip by now. It's well past noon."

Mr. Tumnus sighed. "Well, down it is then. We'll have to sneak past Susan to reach the stables. She won't be happy if she finds out you're neglecting your sewing."

Lucy grinned. "Edmund owes us one. She'll probably be too busy practicing with her bow to notice us, though. Hopefully."

They started down the stairs, giggling until they reached the bottom step onto the main floor, where they ran into Susan, wearing full battle dress with a bow slung over her shoulder. She looked surprised, but pleased, to see her younger sister, and Lucy did not like the smile on her face.

"Lucy," she said, pausing and giving her youngest sibling a strange look. "I was just coming to look for you. Do you have your knife with you? What with the Witch's return, she will most certainly come after Cair first, and we need to be prepared for anything, and I just remembered you haven't practiced in a long while. I managed to talk Peter into letting you practice with us, as long as I keep my eye on you at all times."

In an effort to change the subject, Lucy exclaimed, "I was just going to look for Edmund. He should be preparing too, you know."

Susan shook her head, reaching out and grabbing Lucy's arm to keep her from running off. "Edmund is sick, and besides, Edmund practices with his sword just about every day, young lady, whereas I haven't seen you pick up the knife Father Christmas gave you since the Battle of Beruna."

Lucy rolled her eyes. "Oh, you just haven't been paying attention. I use it more than you know." She turned pleading eyes on Tumnus for help, but the faun just scuffled his hooves and stared down at them as if they were suddenly very interesting.

"Good," Susan muttered, dragging Lucy all the way down the stairs and towards the door, exiting the castle, "then you can show me how you're getting along. And weren't you supposed to be upstairs knitting anyway?"

Lucy groaned, her thoughts of Edmund long forgotten.

ǁ

Peter rubbed his forehead as he listened to the eagle's report. The eagle had just returned from the Western Wood, where he had spoken to the seer amongst the centaurs, and had demanded to speak directly to the High King, in his council room where Peter already was, along with his centaur general.

"Then we must prepare for war," he said softly, dreading the words even as he spoke them. It was the only option.

"Now, wait a moment, Your Majesty, I understand we need to be prepared for her but," Oreius held up a hand and turned to the eagle once more. "Could you repeat that message?"

The eagle ruffled its feathers. "The centaur I spoke to, the old seer Turion, said he had seen a vision. It was of a foul creature, he told me, something of a snake or a great dog, or a mix between the two, rising into the sky like one of the stars. The foul creature then began to attack the other stars, in particular the Lady of Peace, choking her until she fell from the heavens."

Peter grimaced, turning to Orieus. "Isn't that clear enough?"

Orieus did not respond for a moment. When he finally spoke, it was to the eagle. "Did this Turion say whether this was what would be or what may be?"

The eagle shook his great head. "He did not, he only said what he saw, and that I must hurry back, for you are about to be in grave danger."

Peter's head jerked up at this news. "Has anyone discovered the whereabouts of the witch yet?" he demanded.

The eagle sighed. He glanced down at his talons, and if it was possible for feathers to blush, the eagle did so. "There are only rumors, Your Highness. No actually sighting."

"What sort of rumors?" Peter was standing now, running a hand through sandy blonde hair in worry.

The eagle glanced at Oreius. The High King had barely slept, too filled with worry, since the announcement of the Witch's return, and that lack of sleep was beginning to show. Oreius wondered briefly where the Just King was, if he was still ill from when he had collapsed. Edmund would have been able to keep Peter functioning far better than this.

"A hare said he'd seen a pack of dwarves traveling back from Archenland, and spied on them during their dinner, talking about how the Tisroc was very pleased and She would reward them. There are others who also think that the Witch has gone South, into Calormene and made an alliance with the Tisroc against Narnia. It is no secret, his distaste for the Kings and Queens."

Even in his current exhausted state, Peter waved this away. "No, the Witch would never enter into an alliance with the Tisroc; they hated each other long before we arrived in Narnia. No, she is here somewhere, nearby. The cold would not be so great if she were across a desert from us."

Even as he said the words, Peter shivered, pulling the white fur he wore closer around his shoulders. He looked up, ignoring Oreius and the rest of the council as he glanced out the window, drawn tightly shut.

It was getting colder. Summer had retreated into the frosty bite of autumn in the course of a few days, despite it still being the growing season. But it was not some strange phenomena of the weather that brought this about; no, it was still cold inside the building, with the fire raging in the hearth. Edmund had complained about it last night and that was the first time Peter noticed.

It had to be a sign of the Witch.

Peter's teeth chattered in a very un-kingly manner, but the creatures sitting around him, attempting to come to some sort of decision about all this, pretended not to notice.

And that was even more strange. Peter had not noticed the cold until today when he woke up in Edmund's bedroom. He had worn warm clothes to breakfast, and noticed that Susan did the same. It had helped then, but it wasn't helping now. Lucy had commented on it, wondering how either of them could want to wear wintery clothes in the middle of summer, barely wearing anything at all and still seeming hot.

Edmund had been shivering despite the warm clothes all through breakfast.

Oreius cleared his throat, and Peter forced himself back to the matter at hand, noting that no one else appeared to be affected by the strange wintery feeling.

"There are some who say they have seen creatures coming down from the North, creatures that have not come down into Narnia since before the Golden Age. The giants are getting restless. The trees to the north...sense evil."

"Send out your sons," Peter ordered the eagle, standing and reaching for his sword, Wolf's Bane. He pulled it out and stared at it, glinting in the brilliant light. "Find out if there is anything to these rumors about the north."

"Your Majesty," Oreius spoke up, "The Witch is probably biding her time, waiting until she is strong enough to attack. There is no use avoiding a confrontation with her, but if we were to attack now, while she is still weak, we may be able to defeat her."

The High King nodded to him, forcing himself to remain calm. Without Aslan's help, Aslan, who had been the one to defeat the witch before, how would they defeat her now? "Then that must be our course of action," he said slowly, returning the sword to its sheath. "Don't announce all this to Narnia, but they already know she is here somewhere. Gather as many creatures as you can to join in our army." His expression turned solemn. "I fear it will not be enough."

Oreius bowed and strode out of the room, the eagle flying out the window once again, leaving Peter to his thoughts.

They would never be able to defeat the White Witch without Aslan, he knew this. He still remembered every aching moment of that fight with her, how hard it had been. Yes, he was a much better swordsman now, but would it be enough? Aslan had been gone so long, and Peter feared he had abandoned them, not to return again now that he thought everything was alright here.

Sighing, Peter got up. Oreius would take care of the army, gather more troops. Peter would be very busy in the next few days. He wanted to find Edmund, to check on him. If he was this cold, he could only imagine how freezing Edmund was.

He didn't dare to think of where the cold was coming from.

And they needed to talk, anyway. He hadn't even gotten a chance to talk about everything that had happened since the boy had turned to stone, and he knew how Edmund would be handling it. He would blame himself, and he would be horrified that the White Witch was back, the White Witch who had been haunting his dreams for the past five years.

Peter went to the stables to find Phillip and ask him where his little brother was now. Surely he hadn't spent the whole day with Phillip, had he? After all, Peter had forbidden him from riding. If Ed had gone riding anyway, Peter would kill him. And Phillip.

Peter hurried down the palace steps, stumbling down a few until he was outside, breathing in a merciful breath of warm air. It enveloped him, and suddenly he felt hot in the warm clothes and furs that he was wearing.

He shrugged off the fur, slinging it over a pole, and watched as Susan trained the recruits in archery.

Peter smiled. Susan was in her natural element, and he could see Lucy off to the side, still grumbling about having to be out here at all, but secretly happy that she was doing something useful. His sisters were taking the return of the Witch well, staying strong so as to impart courage to the creatures of Narnia. Other than his sisters, he didn't recognize most of the creatures out practicing.

Turning to the stables, Peter smirked at the fact that he was High King. Unlike his baby sister, he didn't have to be out here practicing in the hot sun for Susan.

Hello, when had it gotten hot out here? Just moments ago he was shivering.

He reached the stables and stepped nimbly inside, over the straw littering the ground. But even the straw was beautiful, mostly kept neat. The stalls were all open so that the horses could get out if they wished to, and the finest sugar cubes were kept in a box on the wall where the horses could easily reach them if they wished. Edmund insisted that the stables be at their finest at all times, since they housed some of the finest beasts in Narnia.

Peter thought that was mostly Phillip talking through Edmund.

There were not many talking horses who stayed in the stables, despite the fine accommodations, however. Most of them couldn't bear the thought of it. They had only allowed a rider during the fight with the Witch because they were at war, and now that Narnia had been in a time of peace-until recently-they found it an affront to their pride to have a rider.

Except for Phillip. Edmund had been a great teacher in humility to the talking horse, and when the war was over, Phillip had been a great teacher and friend for Edmund. Peter was glad they had each other, even if he was slightly jealous.

He walked to the stall that Phillip usually occupied, and, to his slight surprise, found it empty of his brother, although Phillip was reclining comfortably in it. He glanced up when the High King entered his stall.

"Majesty," he greeted. He never greeted Edmund so respectfully these days. The horse let out a sound that could have been a laugh as Peter reached up and pet him, but his eyes flashed with worry. "Have you seen King Edmund?" the horse asked. "I heard he was ill, and I've been so worried down here."

Peter's hand froze in the middle of his petting. "What? But...I thought he was down here, with you. He told us he wanted to see you this morning."

Phillip shook his mane out from under Peter's hand, which was tightening in the hair in worry. "I haven't seen him all day. In fact, I didn't see him all day yesterday, either, and I'm getting worried about that young colt."

Peter sighed, instantly feeling guilty for letting the sick boy out of his sight. "I should have made him stay with me this morning."

"Your Majesty?" Phillip asked, the worry in his eyes running through the rest of his body at those words. He stamped a hoof. "Where is Edmund?"

"I-I don't know," Peter whispered, and then ran out of the stall and then out of the stables, leaving Phillip to his worry. Phillip thought about going after him, but decided to wait until the High King actually knew something. Edmund had probably just gone off to be alone.

Peter ran until he reached Susan and Lucy, pushing aside the recruits, not caring how un-kingly he looked with dung on his shoes and sweat on his face, and the rather wild look in his eyes.

Susan was instructing a badger on how to shoot with a crossbow rather than the old-fashioned bow and arrows. The badger shot an arrow and it flew hazardously through the air, landing in the ground quite near Peter's feet. He swallowed and jumped out of the way.

Edmund would be fine. He had just forgotten to visit Phillip, had gone somewhere else instead. Everything was fine.

Peter would have believed that a year ago, but not today. Not with the White Witch on the loose somewhere.

When he reached Susan and Lucy out in the middle of the field behind Cair, he was panting for breath. The badger apologized profusely before setting down the crossbow and returning to the bow he had before. Susan sighed hopelessly.

His sisters looked up at him, surprise written on their faces. Lucy looked more than a little pleased to have some reason to get out of practicing with her knife. She tucked the blade carefully back into its sheath, although this did not escape Susan's notice, who frowned at the younger girl.

"Have you seen Edmund since breakfast?" the High King demanded when he finally slowed to a halt, not bothering to be pleasant. The other creatures stopped in their tracks, weapons and targets forgotten, turning around and listening in at the frightened tone of voice that Peter used.

Susan and Lucy exchanged glances. "I thought he was with Phillip," Susan began in a low voice so that no one else could hear, but Peter cut her off impatiently.

"Phillip hasn't seen Edmund all day. Either he had no intention of going there, or he never made it to the stables."

Susan's forehead crinkled. "I have been out here since after breakfast, and I haven't seen him."

"Neither have I," Lucy agreed, sounding worried for the first time since...well, since Peter could ever remember. Lucy never worried.

Peter sighed. "I suppose that means I'd better go and look for him," he said softly. He turned away from the girls, not wanting to admit that he had no idea where to start.

"I'll go with you," Susan suggested, handing Lucy her bow and arrows.

Lucy set these on the ground and brushed her hair behind her ears stubbornly. "I'm coming, too."

"No, you're not," Susan corrected, placing a hand on her sister's arm and glancing around at all the talking beasts watching them with worry, wondering what they were talking about. "You're staying right here, where Tumnus can keep an eye on you. We can't all run off. It would scare Narnia."

Lucy pouted, but stayed.

The two oldest monarchs of Narnia hurried back to Cair, not running so as to worry the creatures watching them, but at a brisk pace. Peter didn't trust himself to speak. First the White Witch was here, and now Edmund was missing...this all sounded eerily familiar.

"Where could he have gone?" Susan asked, not daring to voice the thoughts running through Peter's mind, thoughts of the last time Edmund had disappeared. "He wouldn't have wandered off by himself..." No, he never did that anymore.

"I'll check the lower levels of the palace, you check upstairs," Peter said, leaving no room for argument. He grabbed her arm, spinning her back towards him. "We'll find him, Su."

Susan just stared at him. She hated herself for the feeling of betrayal seeping into her heart. Edmund would never do that to them now, and she had forgiven him for doing it the first time. She hated that that was her first thought, that she gave Edmund so little of a chance at redemption. Lucy would never have thought such a thing. She didn't even think Peter would have. Then she broke free of Peter's grip and entered the palace, heading upstairs. "We'd better. But when we do, I'm gonna kill him."

Peter couldn't resist a smile as he headed downstairs.

ǁ

"Time to wake up, little king," the voice was mocking and falsely-cheerful, and surprisingly close. Edmund moaned and tried to push away the sound with a hand, before realizing that his hands wouldn't move, and that whatever was holding them down hurt.

He groaned, trying to pretend he was still asleep, hoping that if he did, whoever had bound his hands so tightly would leave him alone.

"Oh? Is the little king so great that he can ignore even me now? Come on, Just King, I know you are awake," the voice was low and familiar, angry now, and Edmund felt a chill run down his spine. His eyes snapped open.

He was cold, but not like he had been back at Cair. This was a natural kind of cold, cold like Narnia in winter. In winter...

His whole body felt as if he were lying naked on ice...

Edmund glanced around and let out a small, terrified gasp.

He was lying on ice. Lying on ice in the middle of a room, built out of ice and iron and with a ceiling that seemed to reach to the sky. He knew this room well, and, in a fit of fear, Edmund scrambled to his feet, tripping over them and falling down on his face once more when he realized they had been chained together at the ankles.

He struggled to his feet a second time, to the great amusement of his captor. This time, he managed to stay upright, though his legs were quaking and everything hurt.

Suddenly, Edmund doubled over in pain, grasping at his stomach as a blast of blinding pain hit him. It was ten times worse than what he had been feeling earlier, a result of the hag's chanting, he inferred.

The voice that had spoken a moment ago laughed in mirth, sounding like clinking glass, and Edmund raised his bound hands to his forehead, fighting off the dizziness that assaulted him.

His hands were bound with strong, but thin cords, so tightly they were digging into the skin of his wrists, cutting them open. He could barely move his left hand an inch from his right.

The heavy furs he had been wearing before were gone now. He was only wearing his tunic and a pair of trousers, along with knickers. His shoes had been taken, as well.

Edmund glanced up fearfully, knowing who had spoken only a moment ago, but his mind was in denial of the fact. She couldn't be real; she was dead. This was just another nightmare-

The White Witch stood before him, only a few feet away, in all her splendor. She wore a heavy gown of white, her feet hidden beneath it, her hair plaited and falling over her shoulder. The smile she awarded him made his insides churn.

This was just another nightmare, it couldn't be real, she couldn't be real, Peter would wake him up any moment now...

She was holding the wand in both her hands, a subtle threat. The source of all his nightmares for the past five years was standing on the lowest step leading up to her throne, a throne that Edmund remembered with much more splendor. Now, it was nearly melted, metal sticking out of the back in sharp spikes, looking more like the door to a cell than a throne.

The thick layer of ice serving as the armrests convinced him that the throne would not remain in this deteriorated state for long. Already, he could hear the Witch's castle groaning as her magic took effect, rendering it into the majestic ice palace it had once been. Ice curled around metal hinges, spreading up through the ceiling and down into the floor.

Despite his best efforts to conceal it, Edmund shivered, and it was not from the cold.

He hadn't come here since the Witch's demise. Peter and Lucy had, a few times, and had reported how different the castle looked, barely threatening anymore, all the ice gone. One time, after a particularly bad nightmare, Susan suggested they go to the castle, just to put Edmund's fears to rest.

"You'll see it and feel better, Ed," Susan had pleaded. "You'll see she's powerless. She can't hurt you anymore."

The words that had been Edmund's lifeline for the past five years were so empty now, and the terror that he had tried his best to quell was rising to the surface once more.

The castle was hardly a remnant of the past anymore. Somehow, with her magic, the Witch had made it almost as terrifying and beautiful as if it had never melted, as if she had never been defeated...

Do you see those two hills?

Edmund shuddered. Were the stone statues all returned, as well?

"Have you missed me, Son of Adam?"


	7. A Lesson in Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund is missing, and his siblings frantically search for him. Little do they know, the answer they search for is much closer than they think.

Peter and Susan had searched Cair in its entirety, but Edmund was simply nowhere to be found. No one had seen him since breakfast, he hadn't been seen leaving the castle, and he wasn't in his room. He had simply vanished.

Peter widened the search, sending the eagles out across Narnia to find the young king.

A day went past, then two. Still, there was no sign of Edmund from the eagles.

Peter sighed. He could not lose his little brother, not now.

Oreius told the three remaining monarchs that something needed to be done. They could not leave the Narnians lost and confused for much longer. The High King needed to let the people know that he had things under control.

It was Tumnus who suggested giving a speech.

He stepped up onto the podium that had been erected in front of Cair Paravel. More than one hundred Narnians had gathered in the street below, hearing that the High King would be giving a speech this morning. They had come from far and wide, searching for something Peter could not give them. Hope.

Peter glanced at Susan and Lucy, standing a little off to the side, between Tumnus and the beavers. Lucy gave him an encouraging smile.

Peter sighed again, turning back to the Narnian creatures. "King Edmund is...missing," he choked out, sounding less like a king than he should have. There was a collective gasp, and Peter forced himself to continue. "We will do our best to bring home the Just King, but everyone is asked to keep a wary eye out. There has been no word from the Witch, no hint at what she is planning. If she was responsible for thie evil act, rest assured she will not prevail. I suggest that you all remain on your guard. Any who feel that their homes do not offer suitable protection is invited to stay at Cair." He hesitated, unable to bear the expectant eyes searching him for some sign of victory. "The Witch cannot win this fight. She has already been defeated once before. We must trust in Aslan."

He was made painfully aware of how hollow the words sounded by the silence of the crowd.

ǁ

The eagles had turned up nothing on the whereabouts of the young king, and, by the third day, Peter was sick of waiting around, doing nothing.

Despite Oreius' warnings, he went out to look for his younger brother himself on the third day, taking with him a small army to serve as a search party. Oreius felt that this was leaving Cair vulnerable, and the castle would be prey to the Witch, but Peter wouldn't heed him.

He could not sit by, writing speeches and enlisting soldiers while he knew that his little brother was out there somewhere, alone and cold. Edmund would not have simply left on his own with no explanation. Something had happened to him, and Peter had the strongest suspicion that the Witch was the cause of it.

After all, it was rather convenient that neither Edmund or the Witch could be found anywhere.

Peter was out from dawn until dusk every day for the next three days, searching for the Just King every second, plowing through Narnia, desperate for some sign. Three more search parties joined him, all in different directions. It was no secret that Peter was frantic to find Edmund, and the Narnians were getting scared.

As much as they loved their Just King, the fear of the Witch and what she could do to Narnia took precedence.

The High King brought his army up to the North, as close to the giants as they dared go, then to the border of Archenland. They searched the forests, rivers, and ravines, but there was no sign of King Edmund.

Susan and Lucy wanted to help in the search, but Peter managed to convince them it would be better if there was always a monarch at Cair, in case there was an attack. He didn't want to have to worry about their disappearing, as well.

Susan almost ignored him and went out on her own to find her brother, but the pained look in Peter's eyes, and the slight growl of warning from Oreius, forced her to stay at Cair. She was obviously not pleased, however. Her arrows hit the target every time, and she didn't remind Peter of a Gentle Queen anymore as she ruthlessly trained the recruits, and even enlisted Oreius' help in doing so.

A reward was offered for anyone with information on the young king. Each day, it steadily grew, but there was no word. No one had heard or seen him, just as no one had heard or seen the White Witch.

Each day, King Peter came home from the searches, exhausted in body and soul. Lucy tried to stay strong, tried to convince her older siblings that Edmund would be all right, that they had only to trust in Aslan.

Six days past, and the castle was so cold at night that now even the creatures living in it, covered in fur, were beginning to feel affected. Peter had to sleep with furs piled on top of him and a fire raging just to stay warm.

Even as it was, he hardly slept. His dreams were haunted by nightmares, similar to Edmund's for the past five years, of the Witch doing unspeakable things to his little brother while he slept in the lap of luxury. After only a few hours' sleep, Peter woke early in the morning, before his sisters, grabbed a light breakfast, and disappeared into the deepest parts of Narnia, looking for some sign. Any sign.

Six days, seven.

The Narnians would not give up on their Just King. Every morning, dozens of them showed up at Cair, offering gifts to the Queens and wishing to help join the search. While Peter appreciated their efforts, he allowed Susan and Lucy to deal with them.

Eight days had passed, and Peter couldn't shake the feeling that if they ever found Edmund, it would be too late.

He hurried to go out searching again, knowing in his heart that he would find nothing.

ǁ

Sometime after the tenth day since Edmund's disappearance, he found himself in Edmund's room, sitting on the cold bed, silently observing everything in the room. He couldn't hold back the grief in his heart now that he was here, alone. He had meant to go to the stables and see Philip, but somehow he had ended up here.

Edmund's room was cold and undeniably empty, devoid of life. Everything was just as Edmund had left it, messy and dusty.

Edmund's sword was hanging on the wall, and Peter cursed his own stupidity for the umpteenth time for letting Edmund leave his bed that fateful day. He'd known his brother was not feeling well, that he was obviously sick and shouldn't be out of bed very long, but he'd given in anyway, stupidly ignoring the obvious.

Of course Edmund hadn't been feeling well enough to walk to the stables by himself. He wasn't even wearing his sword.

Peter should have gone with him, should have made sure he got there all right. His little brother had been ill, and this was all his fault...

Lucy entered the room sometime later, sitting down beside Peter and wrapping her arms around his stomach, burying her face in his chest. Neither sibling said a word for what felt like hours, until Susan came in and burrowed under the covers on Peter's other side, and started to hum.

It was one of Edmund's favorite songs, usually sung during Christmas. One of the only things about Christmas that he seemed to enjoy, too terrified by the snow to find much happiness during the season.

Peter wondered how long it would be before the frigid weather, obviously brought on by the Witch, began to snow. Where would Edmund be when it started snowing in the middle of summer?

Peter had no idea how long they sat there, until Susan stopped humming and Lucy whispered into the silence, "We'll get him back."

Peter wished he shared his sister's optimism.

The door opened then, and Fox rushed in. He paused when he caught sight of the three monarchs, hesitating. After a long while, he finally exclaimed, "Your Majesties, I was looking for you. Oreius wishes to let you know he is leaving, on another search to find King Edmund."

Peter jumped up. "Tell him to wait," he said, checking to make sure he was still wearing his sword.

The Fox shook his head. "My King, I think it would be best if you did not go on this one. You have been wearing yourself thin on these searches. Rest today."

"Peter, he has a point," Susan said softly, studying her brother. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was an unhealthy pale. His hands were also beginning to shake, at a very frightening pace.

Peter sighed. "Very well." That worried Susan. Peter would never have agreed unless he thought he really was too exhausted to be of help, and if that were the case, he was worse off than Susan had realized. She and Lucy exchanged agonized glances.

The Fox nodded, turning to go. Then, he seemed to hesitate. "Your Majesties, I think it is safe to assume now that the White Witch was responsible for King Edmund's disappearance. If that is the case-"

Susan swallowed, pulling away from her siblings. "We need to send to Archenland for help." She ignored Peter's soft arguments. "If the Witch destroys us, she will go after Archenland next," she interrupted him, and Peter nodded, hanging his head. "And find some spies who can actually tell us something useful. And get more recruits. The Witch will be coming soon, if she has Edmund. We had best be prepared." It was the most impolite Lucy could ever remember her older sister being around anyone but Peter.

The Fox sighed. "Yes, Your Majesty," he wilted, turning and leaving the room.

Lucy slowly stood. "Well then, I guess I'd better get back to the healers," she said, hugging her siblings one last time before hurrying out of the room.

"Edmund would want you to stay strong, for him," Susan counseled as she also stood, pacing a hole into Edmund's carpet in front of his bed. She glanced out the window every few minutes, as if she were expecting Edmund to ride up the main road any minute.

"He's not dead yet," Peter muttered under his breath.

"What?" Susan asked, glancing up in surprise.

"If our roles were reversed and he were here instead of me, he would stay strong and come up with a perfect plan to fix everything!" Peter yelled, not knowing where all his anger was coming from but rather enjoying the look of shock on Susan's face.

"We're all doing the best we can," Susan snapped coolly. "I'm only saying you need to rest or you're not going to be of any help to Edmund or the rest of Narnia when they-when we-need you."

Peter ground his teeth. The tension in the room made him wince. "Sorry," he finally whispered.

"We'll find him, Peter," Susan whispered, kneeling down in front of him and leaning against the bed. His Gentle sister reached out and squeezed his hand reassuringly. She was trying to stay strong for Narnia, but Peter could see the fear behind her eyes, the doubt there. He could see the worry lines that were beginning to form around her red lips and eyes.

She finally stood up again, smoothing out her dress and starting toward the door.

"What if she finds him first, Su?" Peter demanded at her back, too harshly, knowing she already had, but not wanting to admit it.

Susan shook her head, turning around slowly to face him. "Then we'll just have to trust in Aslan," she said solemnly, before turning to walk away once more.

Peter shook his head, slightly disgusted with himself as he spat out the words, but unable to hold them back anymore. "Do you really believe that?"

Susan paused, halfway down the hall already. He couldn't see her, but he heard her boots grind to a halt, could hear her even breathing. Finally, "Lucy does," echoed into the silence.

"I wasn't asking about Lucy," Peter shouted after her, but Susan was gone by then.

ǁ

Susan had gone back to training the recruits. Peter was giving speeches now, feeling like a hypocrite as he smiled and waved at the crowd, promised them the Witch could be destroyed.

Lucy and the healers had prepared a room for Edmund when he returned. Peter couldn't understand his youngest sister's optimism.

Lucy came into the throne room where Peter had been wasting about for half the day, after giving another speech, doing nothing but worrying about where Edmund might have gone, and hugged him sometime around noon. Peter clung to her tightly, wishing he hadn't agreed to stay behind to rest rather than searching for Edmund. He couldn't sleep, anyway, so what was the use of sitting around?

"I hate this, doing nothing," Peter muttered darkly.

"We'll find him, Pete," she whispered into his ear, softly. "We just have to trust in Aslan. He knows what he's doing."

Peter's shoulders stiffened at the mention of the lion who had, thus far, not come to help them yet. Where was Aslan? Why had he left them to such a fate? Peter couldn't defeat the Witch on his own; he knew that. Surely Aslan did, too.

Peter glanced down at his sweet little sister as she pulled away, concern gracing her amiable features, but otherwise remaining strong for her brother. Peter was once again reminded of how well she deserved her title, Lucy the Valiant, and how little he deserved his own.

"I'm going with the healer today, Pete, to help find anyone who may have been found by the Witch and harmed by her. I'll be gone until nightfall." She noticed his incredulous look. "I'll be perfectly safe. There will be guards with me the whole time."

A sudden fear hit him, and he crossed his arms. Lucy was so little, and she would be going out with a group of healers, none of them skilled in warfare. He couldn't lose her, too.

"Maybe you should stay here today, Lu," he suggested casually, painfully aware of how weak his voice sounded, even to his own ears. "The healers don't really need that many people to help. No one has actually reported any problems with the Witch."

Lucy hid a smile behind her smooth white hand. "I'll be fine, Peter."

Peter shook his head stubbornly. "I don't think you should go, Lucy," he tried again.

His little sister could be equally stubborn when it suited her. "I need to go. I need to feel like I'm doing something to help. Besides, I'm taking a troop of mice with me, so I'll be well protected."

Her oldest brother sighed, not at all impressed with her guard. "Maybe I should send one of Oreius' sons with you, as well."

Lucy rolled her eyes. She opened her mouth, about to make a smart retort, when Peter interrupted her.

"Lu! This is serious!" Peter snapped. "Edmund disappeared without any sign of what may have happened to him, and I'm not going to risk the same thing happening to you!"

Lucy swallowed. Peter never shouted at her. Susan, yes, Edmund, constantly, yet not as much as before Narnia, but never Lucy. She knew he was just nervous and stressed, but Lucy couldn't help the flash of hurt that swept across her features.

Peter calmed, feeling guilty for shouting at her. "All right. But be careful, and take your dagger with you. And if anyone-"

She was already gone, the door to the throne room slamming shut behind her, leaving Peter in silence.

He sat there for a few minutes, head in his hands, rubbing his temples furiously.

He couldn't stand this; his hands were shaking and he jumped every time someone entered the room, knowing they were coming to tell him his brother's body had been found, an ice splinter in his chest.

He couldn't lose Edmund again, not like this. Not to the Witch who had stolen him before, for that was undoubtedly what had happened again. And if anything happened to his little brother, she would pay for it this time.

ǁ

Edmund swallowed thickly, his stomach rumbling with hunger. It seemed impossible to be hungry in this place, and his face burned with anger. Especially when his own selfish hunger had brought him here the first time, but Edmund found himself drooling over memories of past Christmas feasts at Cair.

He knew it wasn't Christmastime, that it was the middle of summer, but from his perspective just then, it certainly felt like winter. It was too cold to be a golden summer of Narnia.

Thick ice ran up and down the walls, completely covering them to the point that he could not even see the metal he knew ran beneath. The windows had disappeared under a thin layer of the stuff, not enough to inhibit his view of the outside world, but enough that he knew no one could hear him outside.

The Witch, after her initial greeting, seemed to want nothing to do with him, and he found that rather disturbing. After all these years, of imagining the horrors that she contrived long through the entirely too long nights, she wasn't even interested in him.

The White Witch had sat back down in her throne, looking as though she never left it, and sent for a centaur who looked disturbingly familiar. He picked Edmund up-none too gently-and brought him here, muttering in disgust about having to be so near to the "little traitor" the entire time.

Then Edmund was left alone, chained in the very spot he had been kept five years ago, Mr. Tumnus' cell across from him, sitting on the cold floor. But this time, the Witch had left him with nothing to eat, and it had been days since then.

He didn't know how long she had kept him down here. Edmund supposed he could have kept track of how many days had passed through the window above his head, but that first night he had been too ill to think of it, and now he didn't really see the point. He still felt ill, actually, and, even though it was freezing, he was hot with fever one moment and feeling the effects of the cold the next. What was worse, the wound that shouldn't have hurt his stomach was acting up again, and now, it was much worse.

"Blast!" Edmund muttered, glancing down at the wound.

The thin scar that appeared during the Court session, when it shouldn't have been there in the first place, was now a much larger, thicker wound in his stomach, almost as if the nearness of the Witch was causing it to return to its state before the effects of the cordial.

At least there was no blood, and the pain was only a dull throbbing. For now.

Edmund shivered, curling in on himself for some semblance of warmth and rubbing his manacled hands against his chest in an effort to warm up.

The Witch had left him down here to freeze to death, he was sure of it.

The one small comfort he had while languishing away in this dungeon was that this time, he wasn't here because he had betrayed his siblings. This time, Peter wasn't angry with him, and he didn't have to worry about them never coming to find him because they hated him so much.

Peter would come. He was sure of it. It wouldn't be much longer.

Edmund tried to stay awake that night, too, as he had done since he arrived here, he really did. He was far too terrified of having a nightmare about the Witch, and then waking up to find that it was real, that he really was back in her dungeons, and that everything that happened his dreams could very well happen easily now. He couldn't fall asleep. He couldn't bear that.

Peter wasn't here to help him, to calm him down when he awoke screaming. No, he couldn't fall asleep.

But Edmund's eyes soon began to droop, and it was a struggle to just keep his head from falling back down on his chest. His mind wasn't functioning properly; he was beginning to see things, and his head was pounding from lack of proper rest.

Edmund fell asleep. Within a few moments, he was twitching in his sleep, flailing about despite the strong chains as another dream plagued him.

But the nightmares had not even begun.

ǁ

Peter was freezing once more. He'd noticed it ever since re-entering the castle, and couldn't help wishing he had remembered to bring his fur coat back in with him. He could call for one of the servants to bring him another, but it felt selfish somehow, when it never had before.

He was still at Cair, sitting in his throne room, having skipped supper. Oreius had not yet returned from his search, and the lengthy mission was allowing Peter to hope. Perhaps he was taking so long because he had found Edmund, and...Peter slammed his fists against the armrests of the throne.

He was going to go insane, sitting here waiting for some news, unable to go out and help rescue his little brother. He still couldn't believe he had agreed to stay home and rest.

"When was the last time you slept, Pete?" Susan asked, leaning forward and checking the temperature on his forehead with the back of her hand.

Peter shook his head. "I haven't been sleeping well lately."

Susan frowned, instantly concerned. "Go and get some rest, Peter, please. You're no use to Edmund half-awake. You can go tomorrow. If Oreius hasn't found him by now." The last sentence was an after thought, as if she really didn't believe that possible.

That had been when he tried to leave the castle by himself to look for Edmund, and Susan had cornered him on the way out.

Edmund was probably freezing somewhere, chained to a wall without a coat, going through untold tortures administered by the Witch before she killed him.

But why did she want Edmund? Aslan had already died in his place, breaking the Stone Table and ridding it of its power forever. She could no longer claim his blood, and the Witch was not the sort of person to do things for the sole purpose of revenge, Peter felt, but then again, maybe she was. That left only one other option; ransom. She could be holding Edmund and use him to force the Kings and Queens to abdicate their throne, but somehow Peter doubted that possibility, as well.

The Witch would want a fight, a final showdown to prove that Narnia was hers, and she would not stop until the prophecy was...

The prophecy. Only when the four siblings sat on the thrones of Cair could the Witch's power be thwarted. Peter had never had a reason to look into the prophecy any more than that before, but now he was worried. If the Witch killed Edmund, would she automatically gain back all of Narnia forever?

Peter shuddered at the thought, his mind once again rebelling. Why would Aslan allow any of this? Why wasn't he here? What was so important that he would abandon them to-

No, he refused to think like that.

Oreius was gone to the North, to recruit any able bodied Narnians into the army. The Narnian army was large, but certainly not large enough for Peter's comfort. He wouldn't be back for a while, so the High King could find no help from him.

High King? A little voice whispered in the back of his head. You haven't acted like a High King since the day of your coronation.

Peter sighed, leaning back in his golden throne. He had spent the majority of his day here, ever since Susan had told him he couldn't go out and do something stupid, like find Edmund himself.

They were afraid the White Witch would capture him as well, he knew. If she had both Kings of Narnia, Narnia would fall. The girls couldn't face her on their own, he reminded himself.

He was alone. Aslan was not here to help him.

Peter shook himself angrily. None of this was helping Edmund. He wasn't alone; Edmund was alone somewhere, stolen from his family, probably terrified, and freezing from that strange illness, or curse, or whatever it was. Edmund needed him, and he couldn't just sit here and do nothing hoping for Aslan!

Springing out of his throne, Peter paced the floor, running a nervous hand through his blond locks as he walked.

The door suddenly opened and one of the bears, a gentle, usually shy creature who attended Peter, pranced into the room, bowing before the High King.

Peter sighed and turned to the bear, careful not to let his anger and fear show on his face. Bears were gentle creatures; the emotions would have confused the poor animal. Belatedly, he realized that he had unsheathed his sword, and slowly replaced it.

"What is it?" he asked, trying not to sound too impatient, but that was growing very thin. Imminent war, the return of a dead sorceress, Edmund's disappearance...

...Flew from his mind the moment the Bear spoke.

"My lord, I went down to the dungeons to relieve the hound on guard, and..." the bear's eyes welled up with tears, and he stuck a paw in his mouth, as if unable to speak.

Dread filled the High King and he stopped pacing to face the bear head on. "What happened?"

The bear shook slightly as it spoke again. "They were dead, Your Majesty. The hound and the black bear, my cousin. Their throats...had been cut open with a blade. I went further into the dungeons to see if the hag was still there and-,"

The blood drained from Peter's face in horror. "Has she escaped?"

The bear shook his great head. "No, Your Majesty, the hag was still there, but she was singing a strange song, and I suddenly felt so cold-,"

The blood started rushing through him once more, and a stray thought that hadn't occurred to him before, an idea of what may have happened to Edmund, hit him suddenly, like a blow to the chest.

Peter did not wait for the poor bear to finish his story. Another draft of icy cold air hit him and he shivered, pulling out Rhindon once more.

Furious with himself that he had not thought of this already, Peter rushed out of the throne room, ignoring the concerned looks of the badgers guarding the door and the way the bear called after him, and ran down the stairs until he reached the dungeon level.

Peter pushed open the door to the dungeons and rushed inside, sword already out of its scabbard, clenched tightly in his hand.

What he found there stopped him in his tracks. Blood, spilled across the stone floor, staining the once black ground a thick crimson. The hound was still lying on its side, a look of pain in its wide, dull eyes as they stared up sightlessly at Peter. The hound's throat had been slit, the bloody work done with a knife or a claw, looking like a grin on the creature's white and brown neck. The black bear lay beside it, a mess of fur and blood, eyes clenched shut. Both were dead.

Gritting his teeth, Peter stepped over the guards' bodies and further into the dungeons. He felt guilty about just leaving their bodies there, but something far more important plagued him, and would until he discovered the truth.

The hag was the only prisoner in the dungeons. Edmund did not like prisons, ever since his encounter with the Witch's dungeons, and hated the thought of condemning a fellow creature, even a guilty one, to such a fate. Since he was the one who usually doled out sentences, he would find much kinder forms of punishments, such as working in the dwarves' mines or exile to Archenland.

Peter thought he was being too kindhearted, but almost always indulged him in that one way.

Edmund had made no such plea on behalf of the hag, or perhaps he had simply been too sick to notice what had happened to her.

Peter sighed. He should have never let his younger brother out of his sight. He'd known the boy was too sick to be up and about, but like a fool, he had given in.

"Ah, so you're back then," the hag commented, the sound of claws scraping against the metal bars of her cage yanking Peter back to the present.

It was dark in the prison, only a simple torch hanging from the wall behind Peter. It cast eerie shadows across the hag's face. It was freezing down here, much colder, even, than upstairs.

Peter glared at her. "What have you done to my brother?" he demanded angrily. Rhindon was barely an inch from her throat.

The hag pretended to look offended, cocking her head at him, green hair, no longer slicked back, falling about her ears at awkward angles. "Whatever do you mean, my King?" she demanded mockingly. "I haven't touched a single hair on King Edmund's head. I believe you have enough accusations to kill me now without adding any more."

Peter ground his teeth together. It was taking all of his self-control not to lunge forward and attack the creature. He couldn't kill her yet. That would ruin his only chance of finding out what had happened to Edmund.

"Nevertheless, you did something," he accused, staring down his sword at her. "He was acting strangely ever since you were brought to the castle, in pain and cold, too cold. He fainted the first time he saw you."

The hag cackled. "Yes, well, I do seem to have that affect on some people," she said, rubbing her claws together and making Peter cringe at the sound.

"He's gone now, hag. What do you know of it?" Peter inched closer to the cage, and now Rhindon was touching her leathery skin through the bars. The hag gulped.

"Nothing that I can think of off the top of my head, Your Majesty," she said with an evil grin. "Perhaps, though, if you were to provide some incentive like your kind brother did when he came down to visit me, I may be more inclined to remember."

Peter gasped. "Edmund came down here? When was that?"

The hag raised an eyebrow at him, waiting.

Peter sighed. "If you tell me what I want to know, then I will..." he paused, unable to say the words but knowing it was the only thing that would convince the wicked creature in front of him to talk, "I will set you free."

The hag cackled again. "My, my, the High King is desperate."

Peter bit the inside of his cheek. "Just...tell me what you know, you loathsome creature, and you will be free to crawl back to your mistress."

"I can't help thinking what Aslan would say, could he hear you now," the hag purred. "I don't think he would approve of such words from his High King, Son of Adam."

Peter stiffened, lowering the sword a fraction of an inch. "Aslan isn't here," he snapped, raising it again. A small trickle of blood ran down the hag's neck.

"No, he isn't," the hag smiled again, that strange, creepy smile, before saying, "Very well, High King, since you are so desperate to cater to my wishes, I accept."

Peter smiled, lowering the sword completely now, returning it to his side. "You'll tell me, just like that?"

"Provided you let me go, to return to my mistress," the hag responded, sounding giddy. It suddenly felt frigid down here, and the robes Peter was wearing were not enough to ward off the cold. He shivered visibly now, wrapping his free arm around himself in an effort to stay warm.

Peter nodded, a plan already forming in his mind. The hag had made a mistake, reminding him of Aslan. A stray memory ran through him, a memory of Aslan, holding down a wolf, then letting it up and ordering, "Follow him, he will lead you to Edmund."

"Very well," the hag rubbed her hands together, pacing back and forth within her cage. "Your little king came in here, not twelve hours ago."

Peter's head snapped up. So the hag, the hound, and the black bear had been the last ones to see him. He'd been such a fool, searching in all the wrong places.

"He came down here," the hag continued, "looking rather poorly. He demanded to know how Her Majesty returned, and where she was. He did not look well. He kept shivering."

Peter bristled at the term "Her Majesty" being used for the White Witch, but otherwise stayed perfectly calm, waiting.

"I told him you had already interrogated me," the hag went on, winking at Peter as she spoke these words, "and he insisted that he had the right to know. Then," and here she smiled, "her agent came for him, snuck up behind him and hit him over the head. I suspect he walked right back up through that palace of yours without anyone being the wiser."

Peter rolled his eyes. "I think someone would have noticed-"

"I put a spell on them, so that no one would," the hag cackled again, playing with the rags that were her clothing. "They're gone. The agent took your little Just King back to the Witch, and she will certainly have her revenge on him."

The High King blinked at her. "Tell me where she is," he demanded, leaning forward threateningly.

The hag smirked. "Ah-ah," she gestured to the cage between them, and Peter sighed, pulling out the ring of keys tied around his neck and grabbing the one that would open the cage doors. He slowly unlocked it and opened the door.

The hag jumped gleefully out of the cage. "The agent will take your brother back to Her Majesty, like he was ordered to. She wants justice for what was done to her. Where do you think she will take him, Son of Adam?"

Peter glared at her. "Justice?" he repeated the word like a perverse curse, clenching his teeth.

"Yes, of course. Edmund never paid the price for his betrayal, and the Witch will not make the same mistake twice. Where did you think she was taking him, Son of Adam?" The hag smirked at him.

Peter flinched as a dozen images of Ed, his little brother, lying dead on the Stone Table ran through his mind. But the Stone Table was broken. It couldn't be used for that purpose any longer...could it?

The hag cackled, starting to hobble towards the door, her back to the High King. Her first mistake. Peter knew he had to let her go if he wanted to find out where the Witch was, but he couldn't help indulging the fantasy of Rhindon slicing through the air, embedding itself in her neck...

Wait, what was he thinking? These weren't the thoughts of High King Peter the Magnificent. He never killed anyone outside of battle. And battle was different. Then you weren't thinking about what you were doing, and you weren't killing a fellow creature, but what they fought for.

He had never wanted to kill someone as badly as he wanted to kill this hag, except perhaps the Witch when she came to Aslan's camp and demanded Edmund's blood.

"Her Majesty will take back her kingdom, and that boy will die on the Stone Table. His blood will pour out, and Her Majesty will be appeased, as will the Deep Magic. The Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve will fall. Aslan is not here to save you this time." A smile touched the hags lips. "Or maybe she'll corrupt him again, turn him against you and make him betray you like the little traitor he remains. It worked before."

Peter did not know what exactly happened next, only that one moment, blinding rage surged through him at the thought of the Witch killing his siblings, murdering Edmund for something Aslan had already paid the price for, of ice and fire, and even the thought of the hag saying Edmund could betray them again.

His anger was turning his sight red, and the next thing he knew, the room was spinning and swirling. A loud shriek pierced his eardrums and he was falling, falling...

"Peter!" The unmistakable sound of Susan's voice broke through the haze, and suddenly she was beside him, gripping his arm so tightly he was afraid it would fall off. He blinked at her, the image of her face fading in and out as she continued to shout at him in a desperate attempt to get his attention.

He felt like he was going to pass out. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

He didn't know where he was, what was happening to him. He couldn't understand why Susan kept shouting; the rushing in his head was too loud as it was.

Breaking out of her grip, Peter lifted his hands to cover his ears. He took loud, short breaths, in out, in out, trying to calm down. The world around him stopped spinning and he closed his eyes, wishing it all away.

Susan's hand on his forehead, her soothing voice, brought him back, and his blue eyes snapped open once more.

He looked around desperately, trying to remember where he was, what had happened.

It all came back to him suddenly, and he flinched. He was in the dungeons, with the hag, trying to figure out where Edmund had gone...

Susan and a wolf were standing in the dungeons with him now. They hadn't been here before. Susan's face was calm, impassive, but Peter looked into her eyes and saw the horror filling them.

With dread, Peter turned around, already knowing what he would find.

The hag was lying dead on the dungeon floor, her clothes-mere rags-stained with quickly spreading blood. Her wide eyes were staring up at the ceiling, lifeless.

Peter's sword, Rhindon, was sticking out of her midsection.

Vaguely, Peter noticed that it wasn't cold anymore. Then everything went dark, and he collapsed in Susan's arms.


	8. Traitorous Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund encounters the Witch, and Susan and Peter have a conversation in the infirmary.

The pain came later, after the Witch had left him alone for all that time, raging, white-hot pain that was at the same time blistering and cold, and he wondered why she decided to do it now. It choked out everything else he knew, and left him panting and waiting for it all to end, praying that it would. Hoping that Peter would be there when he woke up...

Vaguely, a part of him knew that he was still in Jadis' castle. A part of him knew that this pain washing over him was of her devising, and a part of him remembered what 'the end' would entail. This was her revenge, and it would not be pleasant, and at the end of it, he was going to die.

Edmund opened his bleary brown eyes, glancing around and trying to remember where he was.

The White Witch had removed him from the dungeons, preferring to do this in her torture chambers. Edmund didn't know how she distinguished the two. The rooms looked much the same to him.

Ice surrounded him, on all sides, closing in on him, choking him. His hands were hanging from a chain above his head, shaking. His feet had been tied tightly together, the circulation in them almost gone. He was only wearing his trousers, his tunic a bloody mess of shreds around his feet. It was freezing.

His back, however, was stinging and on fire. He did not need to look to see the blood dripping off of it, by order of the Witch. She had watched while he was mercilessly whipped by a dwarf he certainly didn't recognize, until his back was raw from the lashes.

There was nothing to stop the blinding pain, and every few moments he blacked out, unable to think or breathe. Blood was pouring from his back, staining the ice floor below in an ever growing puddle.

Good. At least this time he was going to leave a mark of his victory for the Witch to remember him by. And he had no doubt Narnia would be victorious against her, just like last time.

Though he hoped she couldn't just bounce back from it again.

He had only eaten once since being brought here, and despite the lack of food his stomach rebelled at the thought of eating as he gazed at his own blood, dripping steadily onto the ice.

Maybe, he acquiesced, it had been rather foolish to throw the food back in the dwarf's face. Although it had been rather satisfying at the time.

Now, though, he was worried that if he didn't die from the Witch's tortures, it would be from starvation.

His punishment for his part in the Witch's defeat, he supposed.

If that was all it was to be, he was relieved. The whipping, though it hurt and begged to drag him into unconsciousness, was not as bad as the things she had done to him in his dreams.

The pain rushed down his spine again, much worse than a moment ago, and he knew he was just beginning to register how bad it really was. He was alone, so he allowed himself the small vulnerable noise that slipped past his lips.

The Witch had left hours ago, just when the pain was becoming unbearable, just before Edmund could plead that she simply get it over with. The dwarf who had carried out the whipping didn't seem to want to stop, but he wouldn't disobey the orders of the Witch.

He supposed that the dwarf whipping him rather than the Witch was important somehow, but he couldn't pinpoint the significance behind it. It simply hurt too much to think.

She was probably biding her time, waiting until it hurt the most and then return with some new, more creative way to punish him. She would bring that knife next time, and then-

Edmund took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. It was only a dream. Peter would wake him up soon, Peter had to wake him up soon...

He glanced around the room. It really wasn't different from his dungeon. The black spires sticking up in the air, the ice almost blue, it was so powerful. So like the room he had been thrust into almost every night when he dreamed. He didn't remember how he had gotten there. There were metal rungs sticking out at odd angles, and the door to the torture chambers was open wide, but no one came in to see him, and his chains were too heavy to contemplate escape.

Edmund half-expected to see Mr. Tumnus sitting chained and mutilated across from him, asking for food.

He had to remind himself that this wasn't a dream, that Mr. Tumnus was still safe in Cair Paravel with Lucy, Peter, and Susan.

Had they noticed he was missing yet? He doubted his siblings would not act soon. In fact, he was beginning to wonder what was taking them so long. They would come for him, free him from the evil source of his nightmares, and then Aslan would defeat her, and everything would be as it should have been.

Besides, if it was a dream, his head wouldn't ache with the dull feeling of a concussion. People didn't get concussions in dreams. They didn't feel the pain of lashes from a dwarf's whip, either.

The object of his nightmares arrived a moment later, and Edmund stiffened. A thousand images that not even five years had been able to suppress washed through him, and he cringed. Aslan had told him it was done. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore.

The figure of the White Witch suddenly appeared in the doorway, filling it almost completely with her tall frame and long white gown. The wand, never absent from her hands now, rested almost lazily against her pale skin, and for a moment, Edmund had no doubt she would use it on him, use it to run him through like she had done during the Battle.

The wound at his stomach that shouldn't have hurt throbbed as one with the thought, and he glanced down, half-expecting it to be pouring out his blood just at the sight of the wand.

But she didn't move, just stood in the doorway, staring at him. For a moment, he wondered if she had frozen herself somehow.

Edmund tried not to sink back into the chains at the very sight of her, straining against them. His back screamed in protest, but he sat tall and proud, chin lifted with defiance, like a real king would. Tried not to admit to himself that he was terrified, perhaps even more so than he had ever been in his dreams, or when she had been living before.

He remembered a time when he had thought her beautiful, more so than any living being. How had he ever seen anything resembling beauty in the cold creature before him?

How was she alive now? It was impossible. Aslan had killed her; Peter had seen him do it.

Unless she had somehow survived, never died in the first place, but that wasn't possible.

Edmund shook his head, hair clumpy from blood and sweat hitting his forehead lightly at the movement. It was all too confusing to think about. All he wanted to do right now was lie down and sleep...

No, no sleeping. There was something about sleeping that was bad, though he couldn't remember what it was. He couldn't fall asleep. Couldn't give the Witch the satisfaction.

Why not?

The White Witch finally moved, stepping lightly, silently, into the room. She twirled the wand around in her hands, eyes boring into Edmund.

"Edmund," she said, her voice sickeningly sweet, and, despite himself, Edmund shrank back at the sound of it. "Until then..."

Edmund glared up at her. "Don't try your tricks on me again, Witch," he snapped. "They won't work this time. I've seen you for what you truly are."

The Witch laughed, a musical, lovely sound that made him cringe. "And I have seen you, Just King. Traitor to your people. Sitting on a throne of Narnia as though you deserve it." The last words came out icy and harsh, accusing. And she had every right to be-

Edmund shook his head, trying to clear it of those thoughts. It was the effect of the whipping, he told himself, and Aslan, did it hurt, but he supposed he was too feverish to know how badly.

He had changed since then. He wasn't the same little boy that she could manipulate with her words, or bribe with sweets. He wasn't a traitor any more; Aslan had paid the price for him. "I don't deserve it," he admitted finally, unsure if that was him talking or the fever.

The Witch smiled coyly. "Oh?"

"But Aslan knows you don't," Edmund retorted drily, and the smile on the Witch's face froze in anger. She bent forward until she was nose to nose with her prisoner.

"I made a mistake when I didn't kill you before, little king." She glanced at his butchered back and made a sound like a content moan. "But don't worry, I won't leave you in agony for much longer. Rest assured; you will die this time."

Another flare of pain rushed through him as the streaks across his back pained him once more, and the Witch straightened. Edmund squeezed his eyes shut tightly, fists clenching around the chains holding them. For a moment, after he opened his eyes, he still could see nothing but blackness, and he panicked, lurching forward against the bonds holding him.

His eyesight returned a moment later, startlingly clear, causing him to flinch. He was staring at the folds of the White Witch's too white gown, sweeping over his feet. The tip of her wand was right in front of him. He suddenly wished he was blind.

Edmund forced himself to think, to try and figure out what she had just said to him. He honestly couldn't remember; his back hurt so badly...Oh, right. She was going to kill him. Briefly, he wondered if she planned to do it by starvation, but that didn't sound like her.

Then why didn't she just kill him and be done with it? Why did she feel the need to kill him now, when she could just wage war? From what he had seen of her troops as he was dragged down here, she certainly had nothing to lose.

He wanted to say all that and more, but the only word to make it past his bleeding lips, cracked from too long without water despite all the ice around him was, "Why?"

He felt like he was going to pass out any second now.

Then there was movement, and her lips were brushing against his stinging ears. He flinched away from her closeness, causing his bloody back to sting again.

"Because you, Edmund, condemned me to a fate worse than death. Spending five years in a realm beyond the world of the dead? I did not go to Aslan's country, nor did I go to Tash. If it hadn't been for that foolish little Calormene boy, I would have been condemned to suffer that fate forever. And if it hadn't been for you, I would have never had to suffer through the agony of it to begin with. So this time I am going to return the favor, little traitor."

Edmund blinked, trying to figure out how it had all been his fault.

For a moment, only a moment, mind, a wave of pity ran through him as he stared at this creature, pity for what she must have gone through, pity as he wondered what twisted life she had lived to turn her into the White Witch. Pity that she had returned from the dead and the only thing she wanted was revenge, that she was not capable of love.

It was gone when his back began to throb a second later, agony shooting up his spine. He forced himself not to cry out, not to give the Witch the upper hand.

Daringly, Edmund pointed out the flaw in her logic, struggling to keep his voice calm as his back ached. "Aslan already paid the price for me."

The Witch's eyes twitched, but quickly hardened with contempt. "The first time, yes. But he isn't here to repeat that."

Edmund's eyes widened as the implication sunk in. Did that even make sense? The Stone Table had been broken, its magic gone. Could the Witch undo the Deep Magic if he betrayed again?

No, it wasn't possible. The Lion had paid for his betrayal, had destroyed the Magic of the Stone Table once and for all. Edmund would never be forced to die for his treachery again.

Belatedly, and he blamed it on his sluggish senses ever since waking up after his whipping, he realized that it didn't really matter whether the Deep Magic could be returned to the Stone Table. It didn't matter whether she would succeed in her twisted attempt to make him betray all that he loved again. The Witch would kill him anyway, dump his body on the Table, and have her revenge, whether his death was appeasing the Deep Magic or not.

Her attempt to kill him as a traitor the first time had merely been an excuse to be rid of him, a last-ditch effort, to keep the prophecy of the four that would be her undoing from coming true.

"You will turn traitor by the time I am done with you, so eager will you be to," she glanced over his wounds and he winced, "escape. And then I will kill you." She leaned down to face him. "And when I have killed you for the traitor's death that should have been yours, I will kill your siblings and take back Narnia." She smiled coldly, and it froze him to the core.

"Do you plan to kill me by deprieving me of food and water?" Edmund snapped at her, realizing too late that it was probably not the best thing to say at that moment. But he had never been good with words. That had always been Susan, who could manipulate with her gentle suggestions. Edmund preferred to use a sword to get his point across.

A small grin twisted Jadis' cold white features into something even more terrifying. Edmund had to resist the urge to close his eyes again. "Guards!" she shouted, her face unchanging, her eyes never leaving Edmund. Those eyes, so dead looking. They appeared to be looking inside his very soul, rooting out all his fears and laughing at them, though her lips soon returned to their firm line.

A moment later, a guard, rather ogreish in nature, lumbered into the room and gave the Witch an awkward bow.

"I ordered that our little guest be fed," she snapped coldly, turning those icy pale eyes on the ogre and away from Edmund. He could not suppress his sigh of relief.

The ogre, if possible, seemed nervous. "Yes, Your Majesty." He eyed Edmund in contempt.

The Witch dismissed the ogre and turned back to Edmund. "But only enough to be kept alive. After all, it is not as if you will be alive much longer and there is no need to waste good food."

Edmund glared at her stubbornly, refusing to be scared by the woman who had haunted his nightmares, ignoring the quaking in his voice, the trembling in his lips as those nightmares flashed before him, when he finally spoke. "Aslan will come before then."

He wasn't sure to which he was referring, his death or her overtaking Narnia. Oh, he just wanted to sleep!

The Witch lifted her wand so that the tip of it was leaning against Edmund's chest, enjoying the fear that flashed across his features, a fear he tried so desperately to hide again. She forced down her fury at the mention of that lion's name. "Don't be so sure, little king."

Edmund lifted his chin defiantly, and they locked eyes for a moment, dark brown meeting crystalline blue. Then the Witch turned with a huff, and strode out of the room, the door slamming behind her of its own accord, leaving Edmund in silence.

He forced himself to push through the pain, to stay awake this time. He could not fall asleep, no matter how much his back ached. This pain was better than his dreams.

He focused on the wounds marring his shredded back, focused on the pain rather than the intense desire for unconsciousness that had hit him full force.

Before he passed out from the pain, some small part of him realized that he no longer felt ill with that strange sickness he had acquired ever since seeing that hag in the throne room during Court...In fact, he just felt warm from a fever totally unrelated. His mind dimly registered it as infection. But at least the cold was gone.

ǁ

Susan was horrified by what he had done. No, she hadn't say anything to this effect, but she wouldn't even look into his eyes as she bandaged his arm, and that was how he knew. Peter didn't even remember how his arm had become wounded in the first place, only knew that the hag's claws cut deeply.

Rhindon was back in its place at his waist, cleaned after its latest use, and every time Peter looked at it, he felt sick, remembering that Aslan had blessed this sword, to be used honorably in battle, not to kill in cold murder. And Peter had done just that.

There were only a few healers in the wing today, as most of them had left with Lucy on her little quest, not yet returned, and most of them were dealing with creatures wounded during their sparring. Susan had been forced to bandage Peter's arm herself, all gentleness gone from her touch as she wrapped the white cloth coldly around his bare skin.

She was wearing a dark brown, tight dress with long sleeves, Peter noticed absently as she rubbed some sort of ointment on his arm.

The healing wing was not Peter's favorite part of the palace, but it seemed to be the place he inhabited the most. The cordial that Lucy always kept with her was mostly used for emergencies and life or death situations, so a healing wing was necessary. A broken arm or an injured leg, his usual calamity, did not warrant the cordial's use, and so sometimes he was down here for days on end, recovering.

Most of the time, Edmund was in the bed beside him. Peter didn't bother to hide how badly he wished that was the case now. But he was gone, kidnapped by the White Witch, and who knew what she was doing to him now, even as Peter lay here doing nothing.

All Peter could think about, the only thing that swept away the guilt of killing in cold blood was that it wasn't cold anymore.

But that didn't make sense. Surely the cold had something to do with the Witch, not some hag. However, he couldn't deny the fact that he had stopped freezing the moment he killed the creature. Even Susan had remarked on it as she dragged him away from the dungeons.

Susan finished applying ointment to his arm and wrapped the rest of the cloth around it. "There," she spoke finally, all tones of gentleness gone from her voice. She stood and stepped back, still eying him as if she expected him to raise his sword against her any second now.

Peter slid off the bed and raised his arm in circles. "It feels much better," he assured his sister, wishing she would stop worrying about him and start worrying about Ed. They had much more important things to be doing than wrapping a little cut on his arm.

Susan shook her head. She had been unable to trust herself to speak until now, but when she opened her mouth, the words came spilling out, along with one, solitary tear.

"Did you find out anything about Ed?" she demanded, voice colder than Peter would have thought possible. He had the grace not to mention the tear.

He looked at her more closely now. Susan was still glaring at him, arms crossed, and he couldn't shake the feeling that any second now she would yank out an arrow and throw it at him, angered by his stupidity.

One of the naiads came into the room to check on the High King. She glanced between the two of them, noticing the tension, and hurried back out, leaving him alone with the Gentle Queen, who seemed to him anything but gentle at this moment.

They stood in awkward silence for a full minute, Peter staring out the large window overlooking one of Cair's gardens. The dryads believed that, if long-term patients were allowed to tend to plants, it could help them heal. It made for a very pretty view, at least, though the sun was already setting and soon that view would be gone.

Where was Lucy? She should have been back by now. Unbidden, panic rose up in his throat, but he forced it back down.

"Killing her didn't help Edmund," Susan stated flatly, her lips the only thing moving. She couldn't shake the horror that she had been feeling ever since she had found Peter, standing over the dead hag, not looking the least bit remorseful, mercilessly stabbing Rhindon through the hag's heart, not once but again and again.

His eyes looked mad, and Susan never wanted to see that look again.

She shouted for him to stop, but he ignored her, or didn't hear her. Susan the Gentle had been sick at what she saw.

She didn't even know if he realized what he had done. He had looked far away even as he stared at her, finally collapsing in her arms. She understood his fury at what had happened to Edmund, but killing the hag, if anything, had only made matters worse.

The hag had been their only way of knowing what was happening to their little brother. And Peter had killed it, not like he killed in war, swift yet mercifully, but because whatever the hag said-she hardn't heard-made him angry.

Part of her was angry with him, too, though she was doing her best to set it aside. Her little brother was somewhere, maybe even dying, and the hag may have been their last chance to find him. The hag knew things. Peter had killed it. Edmund was out there, alone and afraid, and they were wasting their time not helping him!

She forced herself to calm, taking a deep breath. They would find Edmund. They had to. She glanced at Peter again, this time with pity.

She didn't know if she recognized the High King anymore. Peter from five years ago would never have done anything like that. She wanted Edmund back as much as he did, but to do something like this...

Peter turned around to face her, and she saw the conflict in his eyes. "I know," he said softly. "And I...I wasn't going to."

Susan's arms lowered to her eyes and she let out a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a snort. Sometimes she couldn't handle this, playing mother to her siblings. Usually, she enjoyed it, but it was moments like these when she felt like she was doing everything horribly wrong and felt that distinct yearning for their real mother all too heavily.

"What happened?"

It was the first time she had asked, and Peter had been wanting her to speak before now, to ask, but now that she did his stomach twisted and he couldn't bear to answer. "She told me that Ed had been taken by the Witch. And then she said something about him and I... It was wrong of me; I know that. I didn't even realize what I was doing. One second I was just angry, and the next she was lying there dead, and you were there, and-" he cut himself off.

Susan stared up at him sadly. She wanted to know what the hag had said that made Peter so angry he killed her. The Gentle Queen felt terror rise up inside her at the thought of unspeakable things being done to Edmund the Just. She opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Oreius, banging open the door with the flat of his sword and charging into the room.

Oreius did not even seem to notice Peter's bandaged arm, nor the look of horror plastered on the Queen's face. He was panting, still wearing full battle armor, when he came in. "Your Majesties, we've found the Witch."

Peter felt like an idiot when Orieus told him where she was. It was so obvious, it was frightening. But they had searched there already; why hadn't they seen her before?

"It seems she has been at her old castle for a while, your Majesties," Oreius said in response to the unspoken question, although that wasn't really an answer. "She came down from somewhere up North, and...she has an army. A substantial army."

Susan interrupted, "Have you found out anything about Edmund?"

Oreius shook his long mane, a deep look of regret flitting over his features. "I am afraid not, Your Majesties, but I fear that the Witch has him in her power. she would not be so bold if she did not know she had the upper hand."

Peter sighed. He didn't need to hear it; he knew Edmund had been taken the Witch, somewhere deep inside. What good were their spies if they couldn't even figure all this out before now?

"Prepare for battle, Oreius," he ordered, hoping it would not be a long one, hoping Edmund would be all right when it was over and they found him. If they won. "We're going to get Edmund back, and we're going to defeat her."

Susan touched his arm silently. Defeating the resurrected White Witch was not going to be an easy task. They had only defeated her before because Aslan had been there. He was painfully aware of his own failure to protect his little brother then, his failure to defeat the Witch by himself. How were they going to do that now, with Aslan nowhere of help?

Peter sighed. "Susan, now might be a good time to blow your horn." Maybe Aslan would come if she blew it. He didn't know exactly what he was expecting, didn't know if Aslan could even be called by the horn wherever he was, only that whatever happened had to help them somehow.

"What about Archenland, Your Majesty?" Oreius asked, looking concerned. "We sent a delegation to them, but they never responded."

Peter thought for a moment. He couldn't with a clear conscience ask Archenland for help against the Witch. He was rather annoyed that Susan had already done so, not wanting them to get involved. The Witch was powerful, and if...if she somehow won, she would win Archenland as well, and it would be Peter's fault. "This is our fight," he said at last, feeling Susan stiffen beside him. "We will stand against her whether Archenland chooses to help fight or not."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Oreius said, bowing before he took his leave. "I will have more troops prepared by tonight. We march at dawn tomorrow. I pray it will be enough."

Susan swallowed hard. An image of Edmund, smiling at her as he snuck out for another sword fight during a feast with Archenland, flashed through her mind. She was not quite as optimistic about their success as Peter. The Witch was cunning, and if she had an army, Susan didn't know how they would defeat her. And what if by then Edmund- She cut that thought off. No. She could not think about that. Edmund would be fine. They would find him. Figure out some way to get him from the Witch.

If it came down to it, could Susan choose between Narnia and her brother?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pop a comment down below!


	9. The Loss of More than One Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More than one thing is lost to the Pevensie siblings.

Lucy felt like a naughty child, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds, knowing that any moment one of the dryads would notice she was missing from their party and raise the alarm. She could almost hear Susan's voice in her head, asking why she would do something so foolish.

Lucy ignored the imagined admonition and kept walking through the densely populated forest, hand clutching her dagger so hard her knuckles were turning white.

She was wearing a warm fur around her shoulders, and long sleeves, as well as her winter boots. The young Queen had packed food enough for a few days in the bag slung over her shoulder.

She wasn't cold yet, in fact, she was quite warm, but she knew she soon would be, if the Witch's power grew any stronger. After all, Peter and Susan had already started feeling the cold when she left. Unless that had something to do with Edmund's sickness. She really only knew one thing anymore.

Winter was returning.

"Was that why Edmund was so ill?" Lucy wondered allowed.

The forest was dark, the only light come from the stars leaking through the tree branches, and Lucy stumbled over twigs and logs quite a few times. Her feet were much too loud for her liking, snapping broken pieces of wood beneath her shoes and squishing over moss. One of the Hounds had once taught her how to be silent in the woods if she were sneaking up on somebody, but right now she couldn't remember any of those lessons.

She knew it was only a matter of time before the dryads learned of her disappearance, and then they would send a report back to Peter and Susan and she would be in trouble. But Lucy had to try. She would not just sit by and do nothing while Edmund was missing.

It may have been foolish to go out and find him by herself, but Lucy didn't have a choice. Susan would never have allowed her to go with a hunting party.

Come to think of it, neither would Peter have.

It didn't matter. She would find Edmund and she would bring him home. She had to. Sure, the scouting parties were out, but they weren't having much luck.

Besides, Lucy knew where Edmund was, and a scouting party wouldn't be enough to bring him back from Jadis' castle. Especially if Jadis was there and very much, though impossibly, alive.

She didn't really have a plan. Just find Edmund and bring him home somehow. Or at least find him and let him know they would be together again soon.

The youngest Queen stopped for a moment to catch her breath. As she did, she heard the unmistakable sound of a branch snapping and glanced down to see what she had stepped on this time.

She was standing on moss. Someone was following her.

Lucy forced herself to remain calm, to act like she hadn't even noticed, but her dagger switched hands and, almost imperceptibly, she tensed, preparing for a fight.

She hadn't been in many fights in the last few years, preferring healing to fighting, and it was certainly a much safer occupation. She never went to war with Peter and Edmund, although even Susan sometimes joined them. Peter didn't want her exposed to that sort of thing any more than she had to be, and though Lucy found his over protectiveness somewhat annoying at times, she was secretly pleased.

But Edmund, dear, sweet Edmund, had insisted she stay in practice even when Susan and Peter gave in, forcing her to do several hours of arduous sword practice with him a week, and for the first time Lucy was glad for it.

Lucy forced her mind back to the situation at hand. "Who's there?" she called out into the still, windless night, irritated by the tremble in her voice. How young and weak it made her sound!

She was met only with silence.

Concerned now, and imagining all sorts of horrifying creatures ready to jump out and attack her, Lucy reached down into her knee-high winter boots, hand closing around the handle of Susan's horn.

She had swiped the horn from Susan's rooms before leaving, feeling only slightly guilty about it. She hadn't been planning on using it until she found Edmund, however, and then only to call for reinforcements.

Lifting the horn to her lips, Lucy prepared to blow it for help, when suddenly a voice called out, "Your Highness! What in Aslan's name are you doing out here?"

Lucy lowered the magical horn, sighing. "I'm not going back. You can't make me." She was aware of how childish she sounded, but at the moment she hardly cared. She was too scared for Edmund.

The head of her mice guard stepped into view, the light of the stars falling on him as he walked into a small clearing. He frowned at her. A dozen more mice soon joined him, and with sinking heart Lucy realized that her entire guard had been following her all this time.

"Go back to the dryads," Lucy ordered, knowing they wouldn't listen anyway.

The mice glanced at each other. Then, the head of her Mice Guard, Spikes, spoke up, sounding like he was trying hard not to laugh. "Your Highness, it is our duty to follow you, not the dryad healers. But perhaps you'd like to go back to them? They'll be worried soon."

Lucy made a split second decision then, returning the horn to her boot, wondering if Spikes had recognized it yet in the darkness. "No, I'm going on. You should go back."

The mouse shook his head obstinately. "My lady, pardon me, but it is our duty to stay with you and protect you. We will not leave you now. It would be dishonorable."

Lucy bit her lip, deliberating. "Very well. You may come with me, but we are going to find King Edmund, and nothing you can do will change my mind about that. And I'm not interested in whatever Peter and Susan warned you about letting me do anything foolish."

Spikes hesitated only a moment, glancing at the rest of the guard, and then turned back to her and smiled. "We will accompany you on this search for King Edmund, and will be proud to help you, Your Majesty. However, we will not allow you to do anything to needlessly endanger yourself, or we return to Cair immediately. We will not attempt a rescue without backup. The moment we locate Edmund, we will call for help."

Lucy smiled. Maybe this would go better than she had originally thought. "Then we'd better get going."

ǁ

The Witch leaned down before him, gracing him with an icy smile. She cupped his bloody chin in her hand, feigning concern. "Little one. So cold. Come and sit with me." She twisted his head savagely, and suddenly he was staring at the four thrones of Cair.

They were empty.

Desperately, Edmund called out for Peter, for Susan and Lucy. He was met with a deathly silence. "Aslan!" Even Aslan was gone. Either dead or not listening to him, he didn't know which, and frankly, it didn't matter. 

A laugh washed over him, amused by his panic, milky and too sweet. "After all, I have no one else to be my little king."

"No," Edmund heard himself whisper, with more conviction than he truly felt. "They can't be dead. They can't-"

That laugh again, the laugh that would forever haunt him. "See for yourself, little traitor." 

Her hand tilted his head, and suddenly he was staring at Lucy, only she was a stone statue now, standing in the little clearing where the Fox had been turned, her eyes wide, and Edmund could feel her fear even though she was no longer living. Susan was beside her, and even the Gentle Queen's arrows had been turned to stone in her own back. 

One of them was protruding out of her chest, and Edmund could feel tears stinging his eyes. 

Then there was Peter, but he wasn't a statue. He was lying on the Stone Table, and it was broken but still useable, gasping out his last breaths, the Witch's knife in his gut.

Edmund wanted to run forward, wanted to hold his brother and save him, but suddenly his feet couldn't move, as if they had been glued to the ground. He struggled, tripping forward and gasping as he hit water. 

Icy cold water, gushing over his face hard enough to draw blood, it was so powerful. The Waterfall where his siblings had been attacked by wolves.

Then the water was gone, and he was sitting in a dense forest, tied to a tree. He tried to shout for help, but no sound would come out.

The Witch was standing before him, her knife raised high above his head, her eyes glinting maliciously. As she was preparing to bring it down, Edmund finally found his voice.

"How-?"

She paused, smirking at him. "How did they die, little king? Braver than you will. Why, you should know the answer anyway. You killed them."

He shook his head furtively. "I would never..."

"Oh, but you did, with your betrayal, you caused me to find them, and I stabbed the little High King with this knife, just as I am going to kill you."

The knife came plunging down then, and there was pain, unbelievable pain...

Edmund gasped, jerking forward in the chains holding him, heaving in heavy breaths as a wash of terror spread down his injured spine. Sweat broke out on his forehead, despite the freezing dungeon. He waited for a split second, waited for Peter to embrace him and tell him it was only a dream, but it didn't happen and he opened his eyes.

Edmund just barely closed his mouth, biting down hard on his lower lip, before a scream would have split from it.

The Witch could not hear him scream. She had not broken him yet.

Edmund groaned, sagging against the chains holding him. The Witch left him alone ever since their little chat, and he couldn't help but wonder why she had gone to all this trouble to find him only to ignore him.

Her words had threatened so much pain and horror, and he had been preparing himself for it ever since, but the Witch seemed content to leave him down here to rot.

Unless she really was planning on starving him to death. The ogre had fed him after the Witch ordered it, yes, but the food hadn't been fit for a dumb hound. Edmund still felt a little guilty for lapping it up so quickly, like a dog. And he hadn't been fed since, so he could only assume the Witch had decided he wasn't worth feeding.

At the mere thought of food, Edmund's stomach rebelled, and he bent over as far as the chains would allow, dry-heaving. Edmund glanced down at his hands, noticing something rather strange about them. They were turning a pale blue, from being kept down here in the cold for so long.

He suddenly remembered the last time he had eaten; it had been breakfast with his siblings.

Confusion raced through him, and for a moment he couldn't remember how he had gotten here of all places after breakfast. Maybe this was all just a dream, and he would wake up soon.

His siblings...

They were dead! They were killed by the Witch, they were dead, and it was all his fault. Somehow, though he couldn't remember how exactly, he had killed them. Peter, stabbed on the Stone Table meant for Edmund, Susan stabbed with an arrow and turned to stone, and Lucy...kind, beautiful little Lucy...

He felt tears rise in his eyes, unbidden. He should have stayed in bed like Peter and Susan had suggested. He had killed them with his stupidity. They were gone.

Why else was he still languishing away down here? Why wouldn't they have come to save him yet if they still could?

No, no they weren't dead, he tried to tell himself. That had only been a dream, another nightmare. If Peter were here to wake him up like usual, he would know for sure. But for now he needed to trust Peter's comforting words from all the times he had awoken from his nightmares.

"Only a nightmare, Ed. She can't hurt us anymore. Just breathe. Everything is all right."

There was a flash of pain from the lashes on his back, jolting him back to the present situation. He glanced over his shoulder at his bear back and wondered when the skin would turn blue from the cold. Soon the wounds would be grossly infected, and then she would return, decide he wasn't worth her time, and turn him to stone like she had his sisters.

It happened enough in his nightmares.

Edmund stiffened. He couldn't let his nightmares become reality. No matter what, he needed to stay alive. Peter was still out there somewhere, alive, and if Edmund could just hold on until he came, Peter would get him out of here. It was his new mantra, and he clung to it like a drowning man.

An image of the waterfall that had nearly claimed his siblings rushed before his eyes, and he clenched his eyes tightly shut.

Of course, not dying meant he would need to get those lashes treated soon.

"So this is it then?" he shouted out into the dungeon, not knowing if anyone could actually hear him. "Do you intend to let me die down here? Because I was under the impression that was supposed to happen at the Stone Table."

He was met only with silence, which, he had to admit, was what he'd expected. Though some small part of him, a part he was hesitant to name, was disappointed.

Then, the ice door to his dungeons slid open, albeit agonizingly slowly, and the dwarf who had whipped him earlier stepped in, mace in hand. His clothes were in tatters, which Edmund didn't remember being the case before, and his frizzy red beard hung down below the waistline of his trousers.

The red dwarf's nose wrinkled at the stench of the room, and he glanced down at the pool of frozen blood around Edmund's feet. Then he glanced up.

The dwarf stared at Edmund, distrust clear in his eyes. "What?" he snapped, his voice harsh and cruel. Edmund couldn't remember him speaking before, when he'd whipped him.

Edmund gulped, knowing the Witch had sent this dwarf in on purpose, and tried to find the courage to speak as he'd been able to do only a moment before. "I..."

The dwarf rolled his tiny, squinting eyes. "Well? Out with it, brat, I've other tasks to complete."

Edmund took a shuddering breath as another waft of pain shot down his spine. "I need you to do something about...my injuries. The Witch wouldn't be pleased if I died of infection before we ever reached the Stone Table, would she?"

The dwarf muttered under his breath, something to the effect of, "Well, I don't think any of the rest of us would mind."

Edmund ignored him.

"Her Majesty, the Queen-" Edmund snorted at that title, thinking how irritated Susan and Lucy would be to hear it, "-gave me no instructions about that."

"The thought probably didn't cross her mind," Edmund gasped out, "seeing as she's so busy trying to take over Narnia."

The dwarf grinned. "And succeeding, I'll say. Your precious High King has yet to find us here. I'd say he's rather daft for not being able to figure it out sooner than this, wouldn't you? Why, by the time he gets here, the Queen'll have an army fit to rival his."

Edmund bent over, the manacles around his wrists protesting by cutting into his skin, and he answered through clenched teeth. "Can you just...do something about it?"

The dwarf sighed dramatically, shifting on his stubby feet. "I will go and inform the Queen of your request. You may take her answer as a yes if I return tonight."

Before Edmund could protest, the dwarf turned on his heel and practically fled the room, the door slamming ominously shut behind him this time.

When he returned, mere minutes later, face grim, he was holding a bucket of water and some bandages. Edmund sighed in relief, unable to hold the noise back.

Complaining bitterly the entire time, the dwarf stepped behind Edmund and began washing his wounds. Edmund hissed, stiffening as the freezing water slapped his already cold skin. It stung. His back arched and the dwarf snapped at him to hold still.

When his lashes had finally been washed and the bandages applied, however crudely, Edmund sagged against his chains once more. The dwarf stepped away from him in disgust, taking the water and excess bandages with him.

Oh, how Edmund wished he could sit down! He was starting to lose feeling in his legs from having to stand up all this time, and his knees were getting weak, his feet scraping against the ground. However, he knew if stopped holding himself up by his legs, his arms would soon be very sore.

Only one thought kept him upright.

His siblings were still out there somewhere, safe. They had to be. Besides, if they were dead, the Witch would have come down here to gloat by now.

Determination swept through him, forcing out the images of his dreams, and, slowly, he straightened up once more.

It was only a whipping, and he had endured her Whip once before. He could do this. Until she pulled out her Knife and ran him through, he could face whatever tortures she threw at him, because he already had, in the nightmares that plagued him at night. And maybe, just maybe, Peter would rescue him from this one just as he had all the others.

ǁ

Peter was pacing, all action now, seemingly broken from his earlier stupor. He raked a hand through his shaggy blond hair, turning to Oreius. They were standing in a hastily erected war tent, just North of the Witch's castle. More than ten thousand Narnians were setting up tents just outside, in the glade they were effectively nestled into.

The tent was made of a dark red fabric, and was serving both as the war council and as Peter's private sleeping quarters. There were two talking hounds outside, standing guard despite the huge army surrounding the tent.

The Witch's castle, which they could just view from here, was oddly silent. If Peter didn't trust Oreius with his life, he might have questioned that she was even there at all. It looked abandoned, as it had for the past five years. Mostly melted, especially at the top, with those metal spires sticking out of the roof. Surely, if the Witch had returned, the castle would also have returned to its former glory, would it not? He knew how she loved a good performance.

But that was just it. She was not announcing her presence, and not a soul seemed to stir within or near her castle. Her magic, despite bringing on the cold, didn't seem to be restoring her castle, at least not on the outside. Something was suspicious here.

Oreius had advised they sneak around the Witch's castle and attack her from the Northern side, so as to surprise her.

Peter wasn't sure if anything could surprise her, but he had agreed with their first action of war against the Queen. He found he could not condone the second. "I will not full-on attack the Witch's castle and destroy it while Edmund is still in there."

Oreius and the rest of his war council-two more centaurs, a few unquestionably loyal dwarves, a falcon, and Edmund's friend cougar-all exchanged glances.

It was the cougar who broke the awkward silence first. "My lord, I would be the first to die for Edmund. He is my friend and king. But we do not even know if the Witch actually has him, and if she does, if she is keeping him there-"

"He's in there," Peter snapped, suddenly furious. "I know it." He still hadn't explained to them how he knew this; he couldn't bring himself to tell what he had done to the hag. Not even Oreius had found out yet, and he knew the tale would offer his own opinion credibility, but he couldn't. Couldn't bring himself to say what he had done in cold blood.

The falcon sighed. "Your Majesty, if we can take the castle and destroy the Witch and her army, we will be able to free Edmund easily."

"Not if she kills him while we're fighting her army," Peter shot back.

The war council exchanged those looks again, eyes saying to the High King what they could not. He may already be dead. Would you have us endanger Narnia for another moment in the hope that he is still alive after being a prisoner of the Witch?

Peter flopped down into a chair that was quickly pushed forward by one of the centaurs lest he miss it. He rubbed his temples, and Oreius stepped forward boldly.

"What would you have us do then, Your Majesty?" he demanded.

Peter let out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. "We wait on the attack." He barely registered the groans of his councilors. "At least until Lucy has returned to Cair and Susan comes to report that she has blown the horn."

Susan had stayed behind at Cair to await Lucy's arrival, and to keep at least one monarch at the stronghold of Narnia. She would blow the horn while she was there, and when Lucy arrived Susan would leave Cair with more soldiers and join Peter. Lucy, they'd decided for the youngest sibling in her absence, would stay at Cair. It would remain heavily guarded.

Assuming Lucy made it back okay. She hadn't returned on the night she was supposed to, and still wasn't there the next morning when Peter and the majority of the army had left. Peter swore, if anything had happened to her, too...

"Very well, Your Majesty, we will wait," the cougar spoke up, though he did not sound at all pleased.

Peter nodded once, and then gestured for them all to leave him alone and return to their duties. They did, however slowly, as if they were afraid to leave Peter's side. Oreius was the last to go, placing an arm on Peter's shoulder and squeezing it gently as he vacated the tent.

"Do not worry, Your Majesty. Aslan sees. Aslan knows. Edmund is in his paws, as is this army." Then he was gone, the tent flap flapping in the wind after him, and Peter was left alone to consider those words.

If only Oreius realized how little comfort those words brought, falling on deaf ears.

Peter did not know how long he waited there, in the silence, tortured. No one came in to bother him, and he could only assume they were heeding his wishes of putting off the attack. He knew it was useless, though.

Soon, Susan would be here, and then he would have no more excuses. He would be forced to attack the castle holding his brother, and he wasn't sure if he could do that.

The Witch would not wait to kill Edmund on the Stone Table if she were cornered this time. She may have before, may have taken the risk of letting him live to keep up appearances and abide by performances. But now, having already faced failure, she would not be so careless.

Suddenly, the flap of the tent flew open, and Peter was rescued from his dreary thought by a raven, flying in and perching on the armrest of Peter's chair, just in front of him. The raven waited patiently for Peter to acknowledge him, and when he did, spoke contritely.

"High King Peter, I bring a message from your sister, the Gentle Queen."

Peter nodded, running a hand through his wavy hair. What could have possibly gone wrong now? He watched as the raven unfurled his wings before speaking.

"Queen Lucy has not yet returned to Cair." Peter's breath caught. "The healers all returned this morning, but Her Majesty and her royal guard were not with them. Queen Susan has sent out a small patrol to search for her, but can hardly spare a single creature in her efforts to get the rest of the army together."

Peter took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. He stood, slowly, as if it caused him great pain to do so, and walked to the edge of the tent, lifting the flap and glancing outside at the men, training dutifully. The sound of swords clanging and weapons being forged was almost welcome, where a moment ago it had not been.

Oreius was out there, shouting instructions to his men. Peter really needed to look over the plans, make a solid one besides simply attacking the Witch. He turned back to the raven.

"But she has blown the horn, yes?" At least if she had done that, they could have hope, though he wasn't sure what their hope would be in. Aslan? More children from their world?

The raven glanced down, preening his feathers and not answering for a moment. When he did finally glance up, Peter knew before he spoke what he would say next.

"My King, Queen Susan has searched everywhere. The horn is gone."


	10. The Bounty Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new character enters the game...

The house of this particular Tarkaan, which could only really be described as a sandstone palace, stood out against the warm sun setting behind it, candles flickering in open windows. The rest of Tashbaan had grown quiet, the throngs of people returning to their homes, the gates closed for the evening. Word of the happenings in Narnia had not yet reached the ears of the Tisroc, or perhaps they would be preparing for a war as well.

As much as the Tisroc hated and plotted against the four barbarian kings and queens, he remembered a time when Narnia had been ruled by the Witch, and would not have been eager to return to it.

However, Tashbaan was silent, business, as usual, waiting until daylight. But at this mansion, granted the tarkaan by the kindness of the Tisroc, may he live forever, night was when most business was conducted.

At least, the sort of business that interested the prisoner being led through Tashbaan's streets to said mansion by two armed guards, his hands bound in front of him with a thick rope. He carried no weapons, hardly a threat to the two guards with spears.

Their prisoner was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, obviously of Calormene blood, though he felt no loyalty towards it. Then again, he felt no loyalty towards anyone, unless they had adequate pay. Save one person.

He was wearing a short turban, black like all of his clothes, which must have made him excruciatingly hot, though, if it did, he did not seem bothered by it. He was thin, but the guards had been warned not to underestimate him.

He had spent the last three years slaving in a dwarf mine, after all. If he could survive that, he must have been a direct descendant of Tash himself.

The dwarf mine, complete with twelve dwarves to make sure the work was carried out properly, had been a gift from the Barbarian Queen of the North to the Tisroc's son, and despite her purpose for it being to simply produce gold and good favor between the two countries, the mine was used to carry out the sentences of murderers and thieves. Of course, it also produced gold. Most of the miners sentenced did not last a year.

There were no people crowding Tashbaan's usually busy streets at this time of night, and the silence was almost frightening in so large a city. All the kiosks and booths usually bunched against the street sides had been removed, significantly widening the road.

The odd troop reached the gates leading into the inner sanctum of the tarkaan's mansion, where only true nobles should go. The iron gates blocked off that part of the mansion from the kitchens, stables, and servants' quarters. The guards were silent, faces set in stone, and the prisoner had not spoken a word since being led out of the dwarf mines.

One of the guards stepped forward, swinging open the gates, and their prisoner was given a rough shove forward. He lost his balance for a moment, tripping forward, before being yanked upright by his bonds.

The rusty iron gates shut ominously behind them. The trio started forward again, down long hallways more richly decorated than the part of the house they had just come from. Jewels hung from the walls, sparkling in the light of the torches hanging by them.

There were twelve more halls to go through, as well as a set of stairs, before the guards finally led the bound man into a small room, hidden in a nook of the mansion that few ever entered. One of the guards opened the door and fell prostrate to the floor, his boots sticking out close enough for the prisoner to kick, though he forced himself to refrain from doing so.

Whoever was inside said something, and the guard answered in a tone filled with fear.

Then the guard returned, and grabbed hold of the bound man's arm, yanking him inside the little room.

The prisoner felt a flutter of annoyance run through him. It was his most common emotion; indeed, most of the others had been shoved down long ago.

The room was richly furnished, just like all the other rooms in this part of the tarkaan's dwelling. There was a long black rug made of fur on the floor, and an animal skin hanging from the far wall. A lounging chair and a settee graced the middle of the room, a wooden table between them. A plate of exotic fruit rested on the table.

In the tall-backed chair sat the owner of all this, fingertips rubbing together, a cold smile on his features. There were no other people in the room.

The tarkaan sat expectantly, like he was waiting for the prisoner to bow. When the man did not, the tarkaan let out something like a sigh. He gestured for the prisoner to sit down on the settee and offered him a fruit, both of which the man refused.

With a flash of annoyance running through his eyes, the tarkaan motioned to the guards. They promptly shoved the bound man to his knees, but he would go no farther. Again, the tarkaan offered the fruit. Again, the prisoner refused, smelling the foul stench emanating from it.

With a shrug, the nobleman said, "Well, I think I'll have one." He picked up a mango and brought it to his lips, biting deeply so that a bit of the juice dribbled down his chin. The fruit he offered the prisoner was tossed behind the couch.

The prisoner waited, hands clasped before him in silence. The guards each held a hand on one of his shoulders, and they had not bothered to loosen his bonds.

"I wish to hire you because I have heard that you are the best there is in Calormene, O awe-inspiring hunter," the tarkaan said finally, setting the half-eaten fruit back into the bowl. The prisoner, once a bounty hunter by trade, let out a noise conveying his disgust. "And I need the best."

"Might I ask, O Great One, what it is you need my services for?" the hunter spoke, more like a statement than a question.

The tarkaan sighed again, his eyes clouding over as he thought. "You were thrown in the dwarf mines for murdering men of the Tisroc, may he live forever."

"I kill a lot of people, lordship," the hunter replied, glancing up at him, and the Tarkaan's nose flared in annoyance at the lack of proper flattery. This hunter was a Calormene, after all. He should certainly know better.

"Very well. I have a proposition for you, bounty hunter." The man closed his eyes for a moment, as if willing down his anger, though the bounty hunter sensed that it was not at himself. When he opened them again, those eyes were dark. "I sent for you because I desire your tracking skills, not your skills as an assassin. If you accept this job, I will see that your sentence is removed and you will be free. You will also be amply rewarded. However, not a soul must know of your purpose."

The bounty hunter raised a brow. "I am listening, O Esteemed Tarkaan."

"You see, I recently lost a slave boy, about twelve or thirteen years in age. I am almost certain that he ran away to the North, as most of those foolish slaves try to do, and I want you to retrieve him for me." The tarkaan's eyes left no room for questioning, not used to being refused.

The bounty hunter's forehead wrinkled in bewilderment. "I must confess, O Voluminous One, that I feel somewhat offended by your offer. What is the life of one slave boy? Send your dogs after him, and have him dragged back." No one ever spoke to this particular tarkaan like that, but the bounty hunter had nothing to lose, he supposed.

"I am willing to pay you whatever sum you require to fetch me back this boy. I will also see to it that your sentence in the dwarf mines is lifted. However, if you refuse, I will see to it that are you killed in the morning. No one will care," the Tarkaan smirked, his voice whining now, suddenly desperate. "He is invaluable to me, this slave boy."

The bounty hunter froze. "Whatever sum?" he repeated, suddenly interested. He did not care about death; indeed, he had lost the fear of death long ago, but the thought of leaving the mines and being paid was appealing, at least.

The Calormen bit his lip, and then nodded. "Just bring me back the boy."

The bounty hunter considered this. A thousand questions ran through his mind. In any other circumstance, he would have forced them back down, but he had nothing to lose now. "What is he to you, then?"

The potential employer bristled, angry at not being addressed properly as well as at having his motives questioned. "That is none of your concern."

The bounty hunter lifted his bound hands. "I will not take the job until I know why you want this boy so badly. I have never seen a slave master so concerned about getting back one slave, certainly not a master as powerful as yourself. Aside from that, whatever information you may tell me will be helpful in retrieving him."

The Calormen nodded sadly, clasping his hands together, frowning. He looked rather nervous, and his upper lip was sweating. "Fine. But what I tell you must never be repeated."

The bounty hunter smiled, eyes flashing. Sometimes satisfying curiosity was more important than payment, to his mind. "Agreed. Who would I tell?"

The tarkaan nodded to the guards again. One of them stepped forward and cut loose the bounty hunter's hands, then they both bowed low before their master and disappeared out the door.

It was not until after the door was shut and the tarkaan stood and paced for a full minute that he spoke. Then he began to pace across the rug.

The bounty hunter stayed kneeling, finding it in his best interest to remain so.

"This boy I am sending you after is my bastard, child of a Northern slave woman. He was born just after an alliance was agreed to between my house and the house of the woman I was to marry. I could not bring myself to kill him when he was born, as Tash the Inexorable would have it, so I kept him as my son's Whipping Boy. He knew not of his heritage, but as you can see, this would put me in a very awkward position if the truth were ever discovered. If he makes it to Archenland, I fear that his mother's family will find him, but I still cannot bring myself to have him killed. Bring him back to me alive, bounty hunter, and you will have more gold than you have ever seen."

The bounty hunter didn't wonder what had happened to the woman, the boy's mother. He knew there were many wealthy men in Tashbaan who took barbarian women as slaves. Still..."I will do this thing for you. Tell me, what does the boy look like?"

"He is pale, being half-barbaric. But he has dark hair and dark eyes, and his skin is rather tan this time of year, in the hot sun. Almost enough to make him seem like a proper Calormen. Takes after his sire in that way, I suppose, though he is too much of a cowardly child to take after me in anything other than appearance. He is thin, and quiet. Is that enough for you, O Promising Hunter?"

The bounty hunter's lip curled, disgusted that this man, one of the most influential people of Calormene, had slept with a barbarian, and found compassion for the barbarian bastard. "And what will you do with him when I return him to you, O Exalted Judge?"

The tarkaan shook his head. "That is truly none of your concern. Suffice to say that I want him back alive and uninjured. Now, will you take the job, or shall I be forced to remove your head from your shoulders for the knowledge you have just learned?"

The bounty hunter smiled. "I will do this thing for you, O Great One, have no doubt. The boy will be returned to you within a month's end, if he has gone to the North. Sooner, if he is still in Tashbaan, although I doubt it. But I have one question. How do you know I will not simply escape to the North and never return? I would be free."

His employer smirked. "I highly doubt a man like yourself could bear to remain in the Barbarian Wastelands, even if it meant your freedom. Besides, I have it on very good authority that you will not fail me."

He clapped his hands and suddenly the door opened again. A young woman walked in, her face veiled in red silk, matching what little clothing she was wearing, her stomach and feet bare. Her dark skin glistened in the candlelight, and the bounty hunter thought he saw the outline of a mauve bruise on her leg, through the nearly translucent silk.

She kept her eyes and head downcast as she nimbly stepped further into the room.

She had not seen the bounty hunter, but the moment he laid eyes on her, the man stiffened, cursing his weakness. He paled at the sight of her face.

The tarkaan reached up and lifted the veil from her face, revealing it. There was a golden crown holding the veil to her head. A gold circlet also enclosed her hips. Her dark brown eyes lifted behind stunning long lashes for a fleeting instant, meeting the hunter's gaze. They widened in recognition, and then just as quickly lowered again. A slight flush tainted her cheeks.

The tarkaan took another step towards her, entirely too close, and ran a gentle thumb down her cheek. The girl shivered beneath his touch and flinched away.

Irritated, the tarkaan slapped her and she fell to the ground with a huff, landing in a tangled heap on the ground, her eyes locking on the bounty hunter once more.

The tarkaan rolled his eyes, clapping his hands loudly enough for the guards waiting outside to hear. His eyes were twinkling at the bounty hunter's reaction, and he knew then he'd won. The man had tried to hide it, but the tarkaan was not a fool, and he had planned this carefully. The bounty hunter would not fail him, and the boy would be returned.

A guard walked in and grabbed the girl's smooth arm, yanking her roughly back out of the room. Seeming to realize the desperation of her situation only at that moment, the girl let out a loud, terrified scream before the door slammed, and she was gone.

The bounty hunter stared at the shut door long after the sounds of her struggle with the guards died out. He didn't trust himself to look at the man in front of him.

"This slave girl has been nothing but trouble for me, the past few years," the tarkaan told the hunter plainly, and, with a sigh, he turned forward once more. "She ran away a few months ago. I would have killed her for running from me, but then I found out who she was, and I found a better way to punish her."

The tarkaan grinned, throwing a bag of gold at the bounty hunter's knees. The bounty hunter picked it up and glanced inside, but his face betrayed nothing now, the same mask it had been when he walked in.

"How did you find her, if I may ask, O Fearsome Judge?" the bounty hunter at last demanded, voice bland.

It should not have been so easy to find her. He had made sure of that before entering the mines. His last promise to a sickly mother who was now surely dead.

This was why he hated weakness. He had worked so hard to eradicate all weaknesses from his life, but still familial ties destroyed everything he had given up to become what he was now.

"You will be paid the rest upon completing your task, bounty hunter. You leave in the morning. Tell my men if you need anything," the bounty hunter responded, avoiding his question. "Do not fail me, or the girl will die. If you return without the boy, or he is dead, then I will sacrifice her to Tash the Majestic."

The bounty hunter bowed his head as he stood to his feet. "It will be done."

The tarkaan squinted at him. "See that it is. And I trust you understand the importance of secrecy about such a quest."

"Of course, O Noble One."

The tarkaan clapped his hands again, and the bounty hunter flinched, expecting the guards to drag the girl back in. They did not, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't sure if he could face her, after all this time. Especially knowing that his occupation, something she had always disapproved of along with their mother, might cost her life.

Not that he would allow that. After all, this was a simple mission. How hard could it be to find one boy slave in the North?

The tarkaan gestured to the bounty hunter, and the guards looked at him in disgust. "Give this man whatever he needs."

"Yes, my lord." They waited for the hunter to stand before escorting him out of the room. He would be leaving at nightfall, not wishing to delay a moment longer than necessary.


	11. Turkish Delight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two days before the events in Calormen...

Chapter 11

Two days before the events in Calormen...

The White Witch stalked into the icy dungeons, head held high and unforgiving, wearing a blue-white gown that hid her feet. The sound of her heavy, angry footsteps yanked Edmund out of his melancholy thoughts, and he glanced up.

Her wand was in her hand, twirling around her fingers as she took another step forward, towering over Edmund and glaring down at him.

Edmund shuddered despite himself, rubbing absently at his shackled ankles. He chanced a look at Mr. Tumnus, Lucy's friend, who was watching with obvious fear in his eyes. Mr. Tumnus, who was here because of him...

Oh, if he could go back in time now, if only he had never been so foolish.

"My police tore that dam apart," The Witch interrupted his guilty thoughts with a shout, eying him coldly for any sign of guilt. When she found only that same expression of melancholy, her face pinched into an angry scowl.

Edmund jumped at the tone of her voice. She was angry, but for what, he couldn't imagine. She had gotten to his siblings. He'd been an idiot, telling her where they were. Her "police." She'd sent the wolves after them, and it was all his fault.

"Your little family was nowhere to be found," the Witch continued, anger seeping into her words. Anger that was the color red, though Edmund had always, before this, imagined it as blue. Her hands fingered the wand again, as if she were debating using it on him now.

Edmund swallowed, ducking his head and hoping the relief he felt wasn't showing on his face. Or, at the very least, that she hadn't seen it. They had gotten away! They weren't there. He hadn't been the cause of his siblings' death.

The relief soon turned to despair a moment later. The White Witch, as he had taken to calling her in his mind now, instead of "Your Majesty," was furious. She would believe Edmund had lied to her.

A tendril of fear snaked down his spine at the thought of what she might do to him. Of what she had already done to him.

She grabbed him, yanking him into the air and off his feet. He gasped for air and it felt like she was choking him to death.

He didn't hear her next words. At least, not clearly. The images of stone statues and dead bodies somehow blocked it out, and his thoughts were screaming at him, illogically, Susan would point out, considering his chains, to run.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Mr. Tumnus grow increasingly nervous. The fawn gave Edmund a look that was probably supposed to convey encouragement when he saw the human boy looking. Whatever the Witch had planned for him, for failing her, would not be pleasant.

He licked his dry lips.

He looked back up at the Witch. Her eyes weren't ice anymore, but fire reflected in them and somehow that was even more terrifying. Edmund shrunk away.

He knew what she wanted, what she had asked, even if he hadn't heard. Because for some reason that he didn't really understand, she wanted them dead. She wanted them all dead.

The only reason Edmund was still alive was because she thought he was withholding information from her. And Edmund wouldn't part with that information, even if it meant his own life was forfeit. Not now, that he had seen how evil she was. He'd already been a fool to do so once.

"I don't know," he whispered out hoarsely, lifting his chin defiantly, hoping she would believe him. He didn't know if his siblings could make it to this Stone Table and Aslan or not, with the Witch chasing them. Perhaps they would make it because he kept silent, and live. Perhaps it was too far away and the White Witch would stumble upon them, or worse, her wolves.

Either way, Edmund would not be the one to cause their deaths, no matter how much death terrified him. They were his siblings, after all, no matter how angry he was at them before. That anger was gone now, replaced only with...regret. Regret over what he had done, his betrayal.

The Witch studied him for a full minute. Her eyes changed color as they bore into his own, turning black then red then yellow. He balked at the sight, shrinking away from her as far as his chains would allow. His airways constricted tightly once more before she dropped him. He doubled over in pain, lying helplessly curled into a ball at her feet. At her mercy.

The fawn was holding his breath, knowing what was coming but unable to stop it.

Edmund closed his eyes, fully prepared to die despite the terror fluttering in his chest, beating erratically.

Then the White Witch raised her wand above her head without pity. "Then you are of no further use to me," she informed the human boy.

The wand came flying through the air, so fast Edmund could barely see it through the blur of his own watery eyes, slamming down towards him, the Witch's fiery eyes scalding as the wand that would be his doom came closer and closer to its target-

"Wait!" he shouted, fear and some other emotion, one he couldn't quite place, rushing through him. No, you fool, be silent! Something shouted inside him, but he couldn't listen.

The wand slowed but continued its descent. "The beavers said something about Aslan!"

The wand stopped moving and Edmund allowed himself to breathe again. For some reason it hurt.

The words were out of Edmund's mouth before he had the time to fully register what he was saying, and his face burned in shame and horror at what he had just done. Once again, to save himself, the price had been his siblings. I'm sorry, Peter.

For a moment he didn't understand just what he had done, though. The name of Aslan, the name he had betrayed to the Witch, reminded him of light colors and his sister, Lucy. But he associated it with a terrifying jungle creature, swallowing him up. Why would he want to protect such a creature?

Edmund squinted up at the Witch, and for a moment, the smallest moment, she wasn't the Witch, but a different woman.

A woman he hardly remembered, with short brown hair and kind eyes. A woman who cared about him just as much as she cared about his siblings, who was always there for him. For some reason, she was important to him, but Edmund couldn't remember why. He didn't know who she was.

Then, too quickly, she was ripped away from him and the Witch had returned, staring down at him.

The look of fear that crossed her face at the mention of Aslan surprised him. It was not altogether unwelcome.

"Aslan?" She was growing fuzzy, fading in and out before his eyes. He found himself wishing she would disappear altogether, but she did not.

"He's a stranger here, Your Majesty, he can't be expected to know anything," the fawn insisted, but it wasn't the fawn, it was Lucy, pleading with those beautiful brown eyes that could melt almost anyone.

Everything was a blur after that, spinning and swirling as he choked-choked?- and felt pain that he had no business feeling washing through him. It felt like he was being pressed in on all sides. He could hear screaming, and some small part of him told him it was his own. He let out another scream that neither the Witch or Mr. Tumnus seemed to hear and the world spun faster. He heard the roar of a lion and gasped.

The next moment, everything stilled, and Edmund was deposited onto solid ground. He was sitting in the White Witch's sleigh, letting her mop up the sugary mess around his lips with the dwarf's hat. He smiled, liking the feeling of someone taking care of him again.

It was the first time since they'd left home that anyone had bothered.

"You betrayed them, Edmund dear. For sweeties." She was smiling at him, her words coming from far away as she continued to wipe his mouth. Her actions didn't match the accusation in her words, and Edmund shivered at her cool smile.

The look of betrayal on Mr. Tumnus' face at this news was the last thing Edmund saw before the Witch brought the wand bearing down on him once more.

"Turkish Delight. Do you like it, my little prince?"

The wolf cringed as he passed the hallway leading to the dungeons, his ears twitching at the sound of throaty, panicked screaming from inside. Hackles rose on his back.

There was only one prisoner down there that he knew of, the boy King. He didn't know why that fact bothered him so much. The White Witch hadn't taken any other prisoners since her awakening, which surprised him. Before, her dungeons had been always kept occupied. However, he supposed she didn't need any others. This time, she wasn't planning on allowing any who opposed her to live.

As the wolf hurried down the ice hall, he saw an ogre standing guard to the dungeons. The boy inside let out another scream, and the wolf let out a small mewl in response. The ogre remained stoic.

"Stupid human won't shut up," the ogre snapped in answer to the wolf's questioning look. "Been at it all mornin'."

Ailyan, for that was the wolf's name, felt a shiver of guilt at the thought of what horrors the human boy was going through. Perhaps one of the Queen's dwarves was beating him.

"What's being done to him?" the wolf dared to ask, not entirely sure why he cared so much. The boy king was a fool to try and stand against Her Majesty after betraying for her in the first place, and he was paying for it. He should truly have expected no less.

The ogre eyed the wolf as if he thought Ailyan a bit slow. "Nothin'," he responded finally. "The Witch ordered he be left alone...for now. But he hasn't stopped screechin' since I took my post here. I went in to check on 'im earlier. Seemed fine to me."

Just then, another inhuman howl emerged from behind the closed door of the dungeon. Ailyan twitched, but the ogre only slammed his ax against the door and shouted, "Quiet!"

Ailyan lost no love on the Kings and Queens of the Golden Age. His allegiance had always been to the true Queen of Narnia, like his forefathers, and no one had been very accepting of the wolves, after the Witch's demise. Ailyan and his mate had become fell creatures, banished from Narnia on pain of death for their loyalty.

Still, the cries of the human boy plagued him every time he got close enough to hear them. Keeping him here did not serve any purpose as far as the wolf could see. And the poor thing was just a pup, like the boy from Calormen.

The comparison sent another shred of guilt through him.

He had thought that the return of the White Witch would change things, for the better. After all, he had been key in bringing her back. Ailyan had gone down to Calormen and retrieved the human boy. Without his services, the Witch would have never returned. That fact made her oddly more human, less of an all-powerful being in his mind.

She had needed his help, had depended on him, on the hag, and on a sniveling little Calormene urchin for her life. The fantastical Queen of old didn't seem quite so fearsome after that, because after all, what was Ailyan but a lowly Northern wolf?

One would think he would receive at least a little appreciation for it. Instead, he had been completely ignored, not even thanked for his services, his mate sent away on some mission that he wasn't even allowed to know about. The hag who had performed the spell to awaken the Witch had died in Cair's dungeons. And that Calormene boy...

The human pup let out another gut-wrenching scream from the dungeons, and Ailyan couldn't help but wonder if the Witch ever rewarded those she depended on.

ǁ

Lucy glanced back at her little trail of talking mice, offering them a cheeky smile. Spikes did not return the smile. He kept glancing behind them with a concerned look on his face, as if he expected the Witch to come out and attack them at any moment.

Lucy couldn't deny that she was nervous, afraid even, but she wouldn't allow it to deter her. Edmund needed to be rescued, and Aslan would protect her until then. Finding her brother was the most important thing right now. If Edmund could only come back they would be together again, and then it would be simple, defeating the White Witch. Everyone else seemed to think the only way they would get Edmund back was if the Witch was already defeated, just like they seemed to think they were on their own, Aslan no longer helping. But the Witch only had a chance to win if she killed-

No, she wouldn't think of that. Edmund would live. Aslan would return before that.

The sight of Jadis' castle, abandoned these five long years, was enough to make anyone nervous. Lucy was tempted to reach for the horn and blow it now, before it was too late. Something within her screamed for her to give up on Edmund, to turn around and go somewhere safe while she still had the chance.

But the valiant side of Lucy won out, and she refused to back down. Not when she was so close; she could practically feel Edmund's presence within that castle.

"Here," Lucy said, stopping so suddenly one of the mice behind her ran into her boots. The other mice ground to a halt behind the first before they tripped as well.

She had stopped at the top of a small cliff. If Lucy squinted, she could see movement around Jadis' castle from here.

If she knew that her brother's army lay on the other side of the castle, shrouded by a valley and impossible to see from here, she might not have gone through with what she was about to do. Then again, maybe she would have still.

Lucy laid down flat against the grass, motioning for the mice to do the same. They followed her lead, flopping down and gazing at the castle beyond.

"Spikes, can you see anything?" she whispered to the mouse captain as he settled into the grass beside her.

Spikes was holding an eye-glass, too small for Lucy, but big enough to let him see the castle's gates clearly. As he held it to his eye with his paws, Lucy couldn't help inwardly reflecting how absolutely adorable he looked. She would never have said so, of course. Spikes would have thought this the highest offense.

"Nothing moving in the castle or on the castle grounds, my lady," he reported. Lucy's forehead wrinkled at how strange that was. "And...ah!"

She slid closer to him, wishing she could see through the eyeglass for herself. Or that she'd had the presence of mind to bring one of her own when she left Cair. "What is it?"

"There's a creature...no, that's impossible." She was tempted to rip the little eyeglass out of his hands. He turned away from it and stared up at her, mouth open a little wider than usual. "I just saw nothing, and then there was a creature, as if it appeared out of the air. It's coming our way."

Lucy bit her lip in worry. "What manner of creature was it?"

"A badger I believe, my lady." Spikes squinted into the eyeglass once more.

It saddened her that a badger would have joined the Witch. She had always believed badgers to be wise, kindly creatures. But she must go through with her plan now. "Where is it going?"

"Into the forest."

Lucy leapt to her feet, plucking up her dagger from its sheath and starting toward the woods. Spikes let out a long sigh and started after her, along with the other mice. He put away his eyeglass.

"My lady, where are you going?"

She glanced back at her mouse Captain, a look of surprise on her face. "I'm going after the badger. Are you coming with me or not?"

Spikes did not answer her. Instead, his brow furrowing, he responded with a question of his own. "For what purpose?"

Lucy grinned. "Well, it would be better than storming the castle by ourselves, don't you think?"

Spikes looked back at his men, sighed again, and then followed after her. His men made no objection.

It took them a while to catch up to the badger. Tracking and hunting had never been Lucy's strong suit, preferring to go and visit the beavers with Susan while their brothers hunted, but the mice were good at it, and she only needed to follow them.

When they entered the wood, Spikes sidled up to her and whispered, "Your Majesty, I would be grateful if you stayed close enough for me to keep an eye on you."

It felt more like an order than anything, but she agreed. She had never been ordered around by a mouse before. Lucy could hear Edmund's gentle laughter at the idea.

The Valiant Queen held a finger to her lips, warning the mice to be silent. They stalked forward silently, then scampered into the trees and followed her from above. Every once in a while, she glanced up to make sure they were still following her.

When they finally caught up to the creature, she noticed how quickly it was moving towards wherever its destination was. It seemed suspicious, glancing over its shoulder every few minutes and sniffing. But, apparently, the badger hadn't noticed his pursuers yet.

Capturing the badger wasn't as difficult as Lucy had thought it would be. The creature suddenly stopped in the middle of a small clearing, looking around and sniffing. It tensed, and for a moment Lucy thought he would take off.

She glanced up, catching Spikes' eyes. The mouse understood and jumped down from the pine he was currently inhabiting, landing just before the badger with his sword pointed directly at the fell creature's heart.

The fell creature jumped, spinning around only to find himself surrounded on all sides by the mice guard, jumping down from trees by their tails.

Queen Lucy stepped out from behind a large pine, hand on the sheath holding her dagger in threat. The badger reached for his own sword, and was immediately met with six more.

Lucy, feeling guilt about it as she always did when she was forced to use violence, yanked the dagger out of its sheath and held it out toward the badger.

She had not thought the badger would put up a fight. But seeing the Valiant Queen had only strengthened the badger's resolve, it seemed. He swung at Spikes, and the mouse captain just barely managed to duck and avoid being sliced in two, surprise written on his features.

The other mice attacked from behind, boxing the badger in on all sides until he barely had room to move. The sword was knocked out of his paw by Spikes, who tossed it out of reach.

Then Lucy stepped forward, still holding the dagger towards the badger and frowning at the way Spikes and his mice guard had attacked the badger. Yet, she supposed, this was war. Sometimes unfair methods had to be used, as much as she disapproved of them.

"Surrender," Lucy said, hating the way her voice faltered as she said the word.

The badger let out a long, heavy breath and lowered his head.

Spikes took this as a sign of surrender and charged forward with two of his mice, tackling the badger to the ground and holding him down. Rope that Lucy hadn't known the mice had was suddenly wrapped around the Witch's agent, pinning him to the ground as the mice pulled back.

"Tell us where you are going and what your purpose was," Lucy said, taking another step forward, until she was standing over the badger. She hoped she looked intimidating enough to induce him to speak, but highly doubted it was so.

"You might as well kill me," the badger hissed out through clenched teeth, squirming against the bonds holding him. "I will never tell you anything that would betray my Queen."

Spikes raised his sword, willing to take the badger up on that offer, but Lucy lifted her hand, palm flat. Spikes settled for glaring at the fell creature.

Delicately, Lucy sank down into the grass next to the badger and offered him her kindest, sincerest smile.

"Please," she pleaded. "I just want to know where my brother is. Surely you can tell me that. King Edmund the Just?" As if he didn't know to whom she was referring.

The badger, despite his bonds, somehow managed to throw his head back and laugh. Spikes' sword pressed into the fur at his neck. It wasn't all Spikes wanted to know. His duty was to King Edmund, but it was also to protecting Narnia. But he would get to that later, if the badger proved willing to speak.

"Where is King Edmund?" Lucy demanded. "Please, I just want to know. He's my brother." Her voice sounded so young and hopeless that Spikes had to force himself not to run the badger through then and there for causing her such pain.

The badger glared at her, refusing to answer.

Spikes had enough of this. He pressed his small sword further into the badger's neck, until the animal gasped, his back arching in pain.

Lucy glared at Spikes, but then the badger was talking and her anger at Spikes' treatment of their prisoner was forgotten.

"King...Edmund the Just? Not anymore. He's nothing...but a prisoner in Her Majesty's dungeons. Wallowing away until she has a use for him," the badger gasped out, apparently deciding the information not worth his pain.

"So she does have him," Lucy said, inwardly disgusted that the badger chose to gloat about this. At least now she knew for sure, though, what had become of her brother. At least now there were no more doubts, no more wishing. "And he's alive."

The badger glowered at her before conceding, "He is. But just barely. She plans to kill him on the Stone Tale for betraying her."

Lucy's forehead crinkled at this. "But Aslan already paid the price on the Stone Table for Edmund."

The badger shook his head, gasping as the small pin-like sword pressed into him. He didn't quite understand her reasoning behind it, but the badger knew this was what his Queen had planned. Everyone knew. "She will kill him on the Table anyway."

"Where is he being kept?"

"Alone in her dungeons. She has a constant guard on him all of the time. You would never be able to rescue him," the badger said, the last bit sounding like gloating.

Lucy chewed on her bottom lip. Then, "Let him stand up. He's told us what I asked."

"But, Your Majesty-" Spikes argued.

Lucy gave him a look.

Spikes ignored her, shocking the Queen, badger, and his own mice guard as, instead, he pressed the knife further into the badger's neck. "Why is there no movement in the Witch's castle? What is she planning?"

The badger blinked. "What are you speaking of? Of course there is movement in the Queen's castle."

Lucy and Spikes exchanged glances. "We've been watching for a while now, and there is absolute stillness. You...appeared out of nowhere. We assumed you had some sort of concealing enchantment on you."

"Oh. That." The badger sounded almost embarrassed that he had forgotten. "Yes, when she arrived here Her Majesty set a concealing spell on her castle, so that you and your 'High King' wouldn't learn of how large her army was. I assumed she had taken down the spell when your army arrived. There was no reason to hide it anymore. You obviously know where we are. Apparently she did not."

"Our Army?" Lucy echoed. Spikes raised his eyebrows at this news.

The badger rolled his eyes. "Don't expect me to believe that little act," he snapped. "You must know about the Imposter High King's army, camped just on the other side of Her Majesty's castle. Why else would you be stalking about out here?"

"I..." Before Lucy could properly answer him, the woods erupted with fell creatures, jumping out from behind trees and logs, axes and swords raised in attack. A minitor swept up one of the mice before they could react, neatly breaking his neck and tossing him aside.

Lucy jumped to her feet, screaming as the little mouse hit the ground a mere pace away from her, dead instantly. The other mice leapt to attention, forming a circle around their Queen and backing away as the fell creatures cut the badger free and he disappeared into the forest.

Spikes couldn't believe he had been such a fool to lower his guard. Obviously this had been a trap from the start. The fell creatures were closing in on him, and he knew they must have every intention of destroying them immediately.

"Protect the Queen!" he shouted to one of his mice, before rushing forward with a battle cry and attacking a hyena with his little sword. For the first time in his life, he was aware of how small and insignificant it seemed when it was one of the only things standing in between these foul creatures and his Queen.

He and his fellow mice fought bravely against the much larger, fell creatures, but he knew it was no use; there were simply too many of them for the mice and Queen Lucy to win this victory.

Queen Lucy swept up her dagger, no longer feeling guilty about using it. She seemed to be holding her own against the hag fighting her until the vile creature suddenly sliced into her right forearm, causing the dagger to fall to the ground wit a thud. It hit the grass and seemed to vanish beneath the leaves and pine needles.

Lucy let out a cry of pain as a thin trail of red blood leaked across her arm. She looked down frantically for the knife. The hag advanced on her now, leering in victory. Lucy stumbled backward, tripping and falling onto her bottom.

Spikes turned away from the minitor he had been fighting, rushing forward on instinct to the Queen's defense.

The hag raised her weapon high above her head, about to bring it barreling down on the youngest Queen of Narnia when Spikes just managed to reach her.

He shoved the hag, causing her to lose her concentration on Lucy, but, sadly, not her balance, and the creature swirled around to face him. They engaged in a fierce power struggle over the hag's weapon for a full minute before Spikes pulled it away from her and tossed it aside.

It was much heavier than he thought it had looked, in the hands of the hag.

The hag shrieked, lunging at him, but Spikes ran her through without a second's delay, and the creature fell to the ground, glassy eyes wide with shock.

"Killed...by a mouse," he heard her mutter before falling silent for the last time.

He turned to Lucy then, smiling smugly at his victory. She was watching him with horror, eyes wide. Her hand covered her mouth, and a stray tear had slipped down her cheek.

"Spikes!" she shouted.

Spikes didn't understand why his killing the hag had upset her so. She had been in battles before; surely she...

He had forgotten about the minitor he was fighting earlier, in his haste to save Queen Lucy from the hag.

Looking down with apprehension, Spikes discovered the spear sticking out of his side, gushing blood into the leaves beneath him. He looked up and his eyes locked with Lucy's for one moment before he was tumbling to the ground, and Lucy was screaming his name. Several of his mice glanced up in worry, and saw their captain hurtling towards the ground, blood pouring out of his side.

The minitor stood over him, yanking his spear out of the little mouse and turning to another. He didn't seem concerned with Lucy, lying defenseless on the ground...

But she wasn't defenseless, Spikes remembered, thinking of Queen Susan's magical horn, hidden away in her boot.

As he lay in the leaves, sure that he would be dead any minute now, he turned his head to Lucy, who looked on the verge of tears at the sight of him. Behind her, he could see another two more members of his mice guard, lying dead.

"Your Majesty," he wheezed out, finding it extremely painful.

Lucy sat up, leaning forward and straining to hear him.

He could have apologized for failing her, as he wished to do. He knew he had brought great shame to his kind. Mice had only won the right to become more than dumb animals after freeing Aslan at the Stone Table, and he still believed it needed to be earned. But he had failed Queen Lucy while his brothers had helped Aslan! Shame swept through him.

He ignored it, clenching his teeth and blurting out, "The Horn!"

Lucy's eyes widened in realization at his words. Her hands immediately reached for her boot, and she pulled the white horn out of it. The minitor turned from his current mouse opponent, as did several of the other fell creatures, and their eyes widened in fear.

Spikes decided dying was worth it, to see such a look on the faces of the Witch's soldiers in response to little, sweet Queen Lucy.

The minitor lumbered forward, intent on getting the horn away from Queen Lucy before she had the chance to call for help.

Lucy lifted the horn to her lips and blew into it. The sound it made reverberated through the trees, causing all of the Witch's soldiers to flinch and Spikes to inwardly cheer, although he had lost too much blood to actually cheer. The sound the horn made seemed to echo through the forest like a wave.

And deep in Calormen, a criminal bounty hunter was pulled out of a dwarf mine and thrown before the feet of a wealthy Tarkaan.

The minitor shoved the horn away from Lucy's lips, and the sound abruptly stopped as the horn tumbled to the ground. Then the fell creature knocked Lucy over the side of the head, and she fell unconscious at once, blood dribbling down her forehead from the force of the hit.

Spikes felt tears blurring his vision, and he was furious. He needed to pay attention; he needed to see what was going on. Blood stained his fur, growing sticky in it. He needed to protect Queen Lucy...

The mice guard lay dead in the leaves beneath the canopy of trees as the minitor pulled Lucy up off the ground and flung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The horn was handed off to a wolf, who held it between his teeth like it was a great source of discomfort.

The fell creatures were about to start off, the minitor carrying their only burden, back to the Witch's castle. The minitor turned to the fox at his side.

"Make sure they're all dead," he ordered.

The fox bit back a laugh. "They're all dead," he assured the minitor.

"Check," the minitor insisted. "We don't want one getting away to alert their army that we have one of their Queens."

The little Queen moaned in his grip, her head shaking as if she were coming to. The badger, out for a bit of revenge, quickly put an end to that, hitting her over the head once more with his paw. She fell silent and slumped against the minitor's back.

"You did well today, badger," the minitor praised the badger.

"But weren't we risking quite a lot, by allowing him to tell the little Queen?" one of the wolves demanded.

The minitor shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Who will they tell?" he gestured to the mice. "And besides, the little Queen would have found out the truth soon enough, where we're taking her."

The fox sighed, dismayed by his glum task. He walked over to one of the mice, biting it hard in the neck. The dead creature didn't respond and he moved on to the next one.

He bit four more before deciding that was enough, they must all either be dead or close to it.

The minitor, wolves, hawk, and badger were already leaving, and he scurried after them, not wanting to be left behind with the dead in this forest.

And the mice were all dead, as he assumed.

All but one, just clinging to life, but alive.

ǁ

Edmund strained against the chains holding him, his legs finally giving out under him. They scraped against the ice before he collapsed unceremoniously to his knees. The chains holding his arms above his head cut into his wrists at this, and he let out a strangled gasp.

It had been a while since the White Witch was here, and, for reasons beyond him, he was rather disappointed by her absence. No one else, besides perhaps the evil dwarf, ever came to visit him. At least if she was here, he would be fed.

He didn't know how many days had passed since the last time he had eaten. Years, perhaps, of being stuck down here. But then, he would be dead if he hadn't eaten in years.

The guards standing outside the dungeons brought him water once a day, or, at least, he assumed it was once a day. He really had no way of telling anymore.

Food. He could hardly remember the taste of food on his lips anymore. Everything, when he imagined it, seemed too dry and easy to choke on, but it was better than nothing.

Besides, he thought the Queen had ordered he be brought food.

No, she wasn't the Queen; he mustn't think like that. She was the White Witch, and why would she care that he be fed? He should be glad she was leaving him alone. Peter would be thinking up a way to defeat her by now, and all Edmund could think about was food.

He lowered his head in disgust at himself.

But, then again, if he wanted to think of some way to defeat the Queen-Witch, he needed to eat so he could focus. Even Peter wouldn't object to that, surely.

The Just King banged on the wall of ice closest to him with a white knuckled fist, hard enough to cause a trickle of blood to run down his fingers when he pulled away.

"I'm going to starve to death down here!" he shouted, no longer caring who was listening.

He just needed to eat. There had been no food for too long, and all Edmund knew was that he was starving, his stomach was beginning to look strange and distended, and he would eat just about anything right now.

The door opened and the ogre standing guard outside, a fearsome, ugly creature that reminded Edmund all too much of the disgusting creature who had dragged Mr. Tumnus away to be turned to stone in his dreams. No, that hadn't been in his dreams, that had been in real life, he reminded himself.

It really didn't matter, he decided in the next moment. That had nothing to do with the mission: eat, defeat the Witch.

"What do ye want?" the ogre demanded. "I told ye to shut up!"

Edmund decided to try about the same as what he had said before. "The Witch ordered that I be fed! I haven't been, and she'll punish you for it if I die now."

The ogre glowered at him, but obviously believed him more than the last guard had. "Very well. I will go and fetch whatever Her Majesty wishes you to have today." He slammed the door, leaving Edmund alone, and Edmund was almost tempted to call him back, to beg for him not to leave him here.

As he waited, a horrible thought occurred to him. Perhaps the Witch really didn't care whether he was fed or not, and that was why no food had come.

No, she had admitted she wanted him to die on the Stone Table. Surely she would keep him alive until then. He hoped. It was the same mistake she made last time, refusing to kill him until she could properly gloat over his death.

It was a long time before he could make out the lumbering footsteps of the ogre outside the dungeon door, and he involuntarily tensed at the noise. Then there was silence, but he knew the ogre was still outside.

He turned his head towards the door, waiting for it to be opened and for the ogre to grudgingly hand him his supper.

Nothing happened, for a while. Then, a small, trap door that he had never seen before opened at the bottom of the door to the dungeon. It was just large enough for a small creature to fit through.

"Here ye are, Son of Adam!" he heard the ogre shout from outside, and then a covered plate of food was shoved through the trap door. It slid across the icy dungeon at a surprisingly fast speed before coming to a stop at Edmund's knees.

He leaned down, straining against his chains, using his feet to pull the plate closer and somehow managing to push off the white cloth covering it with both feet.

The cloth fell away, revealing the contents on the plate, and suddenly Edmund wasn't so terribly hungry anymore. He recoiled on instinct.

The sight of this particular food made his insides curl until he was sure he was going to dry heave. Scrambling back, he kicked the plate of food across the room, although it didn't go far with his lack of strength.

The plate sat in the middle of the room, just out of reach, taunting him. He clenched his eyes tightly shut and turned away. When he turned back the food was, sadly, still there.

It was Turkish Delight.


	12. The Eve of Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update; if you would like the more complete version of this story, look for it on ff.net

It was almost midnight, and High King Peter was more than a little nervous. The horn was gone, another of his siblings had gone missing, and Aslan was nowhere to be found. For that matter, neither was Archenland. Despite the silence and apparent emptiness of the Witch's castle, Peter knew there was more to all this than it seemed.

No one had seen a single soul enter or leave the Witch's castle in days. The castle still looked abandoned, barely fortified. Peter wouldn't have believed anyone was there at all if it weren't for the scant amount of fell creatures standing guard outside her gates. Still, that didn't seem possible. The Witch he remembered would have attacked them by now, would have shown off her power.

Unless she was waiting for something, as she had waited to kill Edmund, but Peter couldn't imagine what that something was.

"Your Majesty," Oreius interrupted his thoughts, coming over to stand beside him on the small hill overlooking the Witch's castle. Still no movement from within. It was as if she hadn't even seen the army on her doorstep.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Peter sighed. Yes, he knew they should attack, but something-he wasn't sure what-was telling him to wait. He knew that they had agreed to attack in the morning, but something he couldn't quite define was twisting knots in his stomach and making his head pound. He didn't feel sick dread like this before battles. Nerves, yes, but not this. Something was wrong. But truly, what could be worse than this?

"What is it?" Peter demanded, a little snappily, not turning to look at him.

Oreius was silent for a moment. He had probably come to induce Peter to attack under cover of darkness, and that caused a spark of irritation in the High King. He had already agreed to attack in the morning. With another sigh, Peter turned away from the view of the Witch's castle and faced him.

To his surprise, Oreius was not alone. Standing rather indignantly on his back was a mouse, wearing Narnian chain mail and holding a small sword suitable for a mouse. More like a giant pin than a sword. The mouse was brown and had large doe-like eyes. He looked familiar, but Peter honestly couldn't recognize him.

Not under the heavy coat of blood drying on his fur. There appeared to be a ghastly wound in his side, hastily wrapped up with a bloody strip of cloth. He was breathing heavily, and Peter was surprised he had not noticed it before.

The mouse managed impressively to balance himself while he bowed before the High King, tipping a little on the centaur general's back. Oreius moved under him to support him, exchanging a glance with Peter.

"Sire, this mouse wandered into our camp just before nightfall. He refused to get any rest or treatment before speaking with you. He claims he brings an important message...from your sister."

Peter's breath hitched. What now? Had Cair been attacked with only Susan and a small band of warriors to protect it?

"Then let him speak," he heard himself say, numb. The mouse looked terrible, teetering on Oreius' back from the strength it had taken to bow, and for a moment Peter wished to tell him to wait on his news until he was at least looked over by a healer. But then he reflected that the news had to be terribly important, or the mouse would have done that already.

The mouse jumped down from his perch on Oreius' back and fell to the ground. He flinched, and then righted himself, gasping a little. He gave another sweeping bow and laid his sword on the ground at Peter's feet before beginning his tale.

"Your Majesty," the mouse greeted, lifting his head. "I bring grave news. I am Spikes... captain of the guards sent with your sister, Queen Lucy."

At these words, Peter's fists clenched, but his face remained impassive. "Where is she?"

The mouse lowered his head again, in shame. He was eying the sword as if he might use it to run himself through for his failure, and Peter immediately felt guilty for his harsh words. The mouse had clearly been through a horrible ordeal, and was barely staying upright. From the looks of things, he had fought a valiant fight.

Still, the thought that Lucy had been through the same ordeal and was not here was enough to put any sympathy for the creature out of his mind.

"Please, tell me what happened."

The mouse swallowed. "She left the dryads, saying she wanted to find King Edmund on her own. We could not dissuade her course, so my mice and I went with her."

"You let her go?" Peter demanded, horrified.

"She had the Queen Susan's magic horn, my King, and...I will give no excuses. I have failed her, and you, my King, and brought shame to my fellow creatures. But I ask that you hear me out before you decide my punishment."

Peter raised a brow at this. Lucy was fourteen, and hardly ever went off on risky adventures by herself these days! The mouse should never have let her do something this foolhardy...He calmed himself, nodding for the mouse to continue.

Spikes was obviously exhausted, just barely able to keep his head up, but he continued. "We discovered an agent of the Witch in the woods, and managed to take him captive."

So they had been able to capture an agent of the White Witch but could not stop a fourteen year old girl from wandering off into a dangerous situation? Peter's fingernails were biting into his skin from how hard he was clenching them.

Spikes did not seem to notice, looking down at his sword and not at Peter. "The creature told us...under persuasion...that the Witch does indeed hold King Edmund captive and has some sort of spell protecting her castle from the outside, hiding the real size of her army and its restoration. She plans to attack soon, while you do not know her numbers. And I...learned even more disturbing news along my way here."

Peter sighed, mopping his forehead. He could not possibly imagine anything more worse than this.

"I just barely managed to get past an army, hidden a ways to the North of here, beyond the Witch's castle," Spikes gasped, doubling over suddenly in pain. Peter took a step forward, but the mouse held up a hand, begging to continue. "She has bribed the giants of Harfang into attacking from the North, so that your army is trapped between them."

Peter paled at this news, glancing at Oreius for confirmation. Oreius dipped his head, signifying that the mouse had spoken the truth.

"We sent out one of our scouts after hearing of this, as it was the only thing the mouse would tell us without first speaking to you. What he says is true. The giants are descending in many numbers..."

"What happened to my sister?" Peter demanded. "Why is she not with you?"

Spikes bit his lip, glancing down at his sword again in guilt. "I...tried to protect her, my King, as it is my solemn duty. But...we were waylaid by agents of the Witch. It was a trap, I believe, all to take the Queen. We fought them off, and the Queen blew the horn, but there were too many of them." He looked up then, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I was forced to watch as they took away the Queen and killed every one of my mice. I alone survived, barely, but they thought me too close to death to worry. I managed to get up and find my way here. We were not far from this place when it happened." He grimaced a little.

Peter took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. "Thank you, Spikes. You have fought bravely and paid dearly to bring me this news. I will make sure it is used well. You should go and get your wounds tended to."

Spikes didn't move. "My King, please. Dispatch of me. I have failed the Queen, my charge, and my guard. There is no honor left in my life, and it would be better if I were to die, as my guard did." He picked the little sword up off the grass and extended it with both hands to the High King.

Peter knelt down until he was face to face with the mouse. Resting a hand on the injured creature's shoulder, he gently pushed the sword back down into the grass.

"Go and get your wounds tended to, my friend. Tomorrow is a new day. There may still be time to regain your lost honor."

With that, he stood, clearly dismissing the animal. Sighing, Spikes re-sheathed his sword and walked away, back into the camp, leaving Oreius and Peter alone.

"He said it was a trap laid deliberately by the Witch's soldiers. Do you think any of it can be taken seriously?" Oreius ventured to ask after some silence.

Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. "If it was true, what he said about the giants of Harfang, then I am certain the rest of it is true as well."

Oreius dipped his head. "Then, Your Highness, what do we do?"

Peter took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Has the group we sent to Archenland returned yet?"

Oreius shook his head, long hair shaking with it. "No, my lord. We have gotten no word."

The High King turned around, gazing at the White Witch's castle. A castle that was apparently enchanted to hide what was really going on inside. How...fitting.

"Then there is nothing we can do. We cannot allow the Witch to take back Narnia lying down. For the sake of Narnia, we must attack at dawn. With this number, we will not be able to defeat the Witch's army and the giants both. Send out word for any who are able to lift a sword to come and protect their homeland. Pray that Aslan is with us," he stated ominously, imagining the horrible things his siblings were going through just inside those ice walls.

He didn't know why he had said that last part. He didn't believe Aslan was with them, not this time. Surely if he was, he would have done something by now to stop all of this.

Oreius turned to go, and then stopped, as if he had just remembered something. "My lord, the mouse captain said that Queen Lucy blew the horn before she was taken. Perhaps there is still hope?"

Peter watched as the sun disappeared over the horizon, turning the sky a dull red. Red like the blood staining Spikes' fur. Behind him, the camp was beginning to settle in for the night. He chose his next words carefully.

"We can hope, Oreius. We must hope."

ǁ

Peter awoke the next morning to the sound of Oreius' horn, the feeling of dread that had been plaguing him twisting at his insides and causing his head to feel a bit fuzzy.

He dressed in a dream-like state, not entirely aware of what he was doing, and then called in his servant, a light-haired fawn. The fawn held a bundle of Peter's armor in his arms, cradling it.

Peter stared at the armor for a moment, hesitating. Then he donned the helmet, feeling the thing enclose around his head and for a moment, panicking. Then the feeling was soon gone. He blinked. He had never felt that way about putting on his helmet before.

The faun helped him into the rest of his armor, and then handed him his sword and sheath. Peter plucked it out of his hands, gazing at it for a moment longer than necessary, trying to quell that strange feeling, before buckling it to his belt.

He nodded to the faun. His armor bearer smiled, a bit nervously, and walked to the entrance of the tent, quickly opening it for the High King.

When Peter stepped outside, he wasn't sure what he was expecting. The men making their last preparations for war, perhaps. Certainly not this.

Every Narnian in his army was at attention already, and all who had come during the night, was facing Peter's tent, their heads bowing when they caught sight of him for the first time that morning. They were already wearing their armor and weapons, and the last vestiges of the camp, besides Peter's tent, had been carefully stowed away. The looks on their faces surprised him as well. Even Spikes, the mouse who had served as informer last night, was there, though he lay on a stretcher and was covered in bandages.

Peter hoped he would not have to be the one to tell the valiant little injured mouse that he would not be fighting today.

But it was the golden chariot lying on the grass in front of the troops that caught Peter's attention first. It was beautiful, long and sleek, driven by two white unicorns that made him think back to his last battle with the Witch. The chariot had obviously been polished recently, and it shown in the morning sun.

Peter didn't normally ride in chariots; he preferred horses, preferred to be equal with his soldiers during battles, at least, but this was beautiful. He couldn't held wondering how they had gotten it here without his knowing.

How early had they awoken to prepare for this? How long had he been sleeping?

Peter stood in shocked silence for a moment, unsure how to respond to this honor. Normally, he would have the right words, would thank them for their duty and loyalty and give a speech inspiring them for the battle ahead, but his mind had gone completely blank. Then Oreius was standing beside him, and he found himself grateful for the centaur's presence.

"My lord, your men are ready for battle, ready to follow you to the death for Narnia, if need be."

Peter turned to his General, blinking at him. He was about to respond, about to thank them all.

Then his eyes caught movement just over Oreius' shoulder, to the north, and all thought of a lovely speech to motivate his men vanished.

Spikes had been correct, about the giants of Harfang. They had indeed come to fight at the behest of the White Witch, in numbers even larger than Oreius had described to him.

And they were perched on the edge of the valley, silent as the dead, as if they had been there forever, armed with giant weapons that looked about the size of Peter, some even larger. Their king, a heavyset giant, sat in a giant golden carriage, peering down at Peter and the Narnians in distaste.

He wondered briefly what the Witch had promised the supposedly Gentle Giants to help her. It was not usually their way to war against another nation; they preferred to lie in wait for some innocent to come along that they might feast, and to stay put in their castle.

They had surrounded the encampment in a semi-circle, and Peter was loathe to turn around and see whom was on the other side of the valley.

He turned his attentions back to Oreius, meeting the centaur's eyes, and realized with shock that really shouldn't have been so surprising, that Oreius already knew that they were surrounded. There was no hope of escape.

They would fight today, and they had to win, despite all the odds. For Edmund's sake, and for Narnia's.

Dreading what he would find on the Southern ridge of the valley, Peter turned slowly.

The Witch's army, looking eerily similar to her army five years prior, as it was filled with giants, wolves, and all manner of Fell Beasts, laid in wait on the other side of the valley, but Peter could find no trace of the Witch, which was...strange. Surely she would be out here gloating as well.

He glanced back at the Witch's castle, paling as he saw more soldiers arriving. They were hopelessly outnumbered, thanks to the Giants of Harfang. Even the Narnians who had arrived during the night would not help to even things out.

He found himself wishing that he had waited to attack until Archenland responded.

"They have been there since dawn, Your Highness," Oreius said softly. "They seem to be waiting for something."

Peter reflected with irony that the White Witch certainly enjoyed her dramatic entrances.

Apparently, that something happened to be Peter, for suddenly a lone rider on a small pony descended from the Witch's side, galloping down into the valley.

The Narnian army spun to face this lone attacker, and one of the loyal minitors stepped forward to intercept the rider, but suddenly a voice rung out, "Parley!"

Peter and Oreius exchanged glances. Their situation was hopeless; they were terribly outnumbered. What could the White Witch be up to? She had no reason to negotiate with them.

Peter had a bad feeling about this.

The minitor moved back, allowing the pony through the ranks. It seemed to take an agonizingly long time for the rider to move to the front of the army, but when he finally stopped before Peter, the High King found himself wishing the minitor had run him through.

The dwarf, eerily familiar to the one that had beaten Edmund and stood before the Narnians to announce the White Witch to their camp, slid down from his horse and gave Peter a mocking bow.

He straightened, a stern smirk on his ugly features. He was a red dwarf, his long red beard reaching down to his ankles.

Peter's private guard, made up of mostly wolves, growled as one at the dwarf. He sighed inwardly at the thought that many of the wolves in his army would be fighting kin today.

He ignored them, eyes only for Peter. "I bring a message for the one who calls himself High King of Narnia, from her Majesty, the Queen of Narnia, Empress of the Lone Islands, -"

Peter sighed, stepping forward with his hand resting on the hilt of Rhindon. "What is it?" he interrupted, before the Witch could try and claim any more of his lands.

The dwarf drew himself up to his full height, reaching to Peter's waist, and began to recite, a cocky grin splitting his mouth as he spoke.

"The Queen of Narnia wishes a parley with the one who calls himself High King Peter, for the chance to end all of this with as little bloodshed as possible. You can see-" he gestured to the two armies surrounding them- "that it is in your best interest to do so."

ǁ

When Lucy woke up, she was lying on something hard and cold. For a moment, she thought she had returned to Cair and perhaps fallen asleep on the ivory bench in her favorite garden.

Then she opened her eyes and realized the situation was far more serious than that.

She was lying in the middle of Jadis' ice castle, probably in the dungeons, although she had never been to them before so she couldn't be sure. Her hands were chained behind her back, pressing into the solid ice, but her feet were free. It was cold, far too cold for the clothes she was wearing.

The White Witch was standing above her, smiling in a way that almost seemed manic. Her eyes followed Lucy's every movement with something like glee. Lucy wondered absently if Edmund's nightmares were like this; the Witch looming over him, smiling in victory.

She decided then that she would not allow this Witch victory.

Speaking of Edmund, where was he? She glanced around the dungeon, but he was nowhere to be found. The thought terrified her. Perhaps he was already dead. No, she couldn't think like that.

"Little Lucy the Valiant," Jadis pronounced, still grinning. "The one who started it all. Oh, I was almost tempted to kill you when they brought you here. It would have been fitting. The sibling who unites them all, dead at my hand."

Lucy glared up at her, feeling vulnerable lying on her back on the floor while the woman who had caused Narnia so much pain towered above her. She refused to respond to the taunts. Forcing herself to sit up, Lucy rubbed at her wrists, wincing when the movement stung.

Her hair had fallen out of the tie she had it in earlier, some of it falling in front of her face.

"But I suppose I shall have to have patience for that, as with your dear brother," the White Witch continued, not at all bothered by Lucy's silence. "After all, I shall not have to wait long."

"Aslan will never let you win!" Lucy bit out confidently, the name of the lion causing her to feel slightly empowered. The Witch didn't seem as terrifying as she had when Lucy was nine now.

The White Witch's reaction to the lion's name was enough to make Lucy feel even more confident.

"Do not utter that name in my presence!" she hissed, leaning over Lucy, face twisting with rage. Her hand was itching for her wand, but for some reason, she didn't have it with her. Red blotches stuck out on her porcelain neck. Then, slowly, she calmed until her face had that creepy smile once more.

"He cannot help you, child. Not this time. Narnia is mine. He knows this, or he would have come to your rescue already." She turned on her heel and started for the door.

Lucy was not going to let her get away that easily. "Aslan would never abandon us. What have you done with my brother?" she shouted after the Witch.

Slowly, Jadis turned around in the doorway. "Ah, I was wondering when you would ask." A frown now, her brows knitting together. "These are the dungeons. He is nearby. You didn't think I would leave you together?"

Lucy was just glad that he was still alive, unless...unless the Witch was lying to her. She had to know. She had to see him again, to know he was all right before...whatever the Witch had planned for them. "I want to see him."

The Witch laughed, a musical sound that chilled Lucy to the core. "Patience, child. You will see each other soon, but not quite yet."

"No!" Lucy shouted, causing herself to flinch at how loud it sounded in the echoing room. Even the Witch seemed surprised. "No, I want to see him now. How do I know you haven't already killed him?"

The White Witch smirked. "I suppose you shall just have to trust me, child."

In hindsight, Lucy would have laughed if her situation was not so desperate. "Please, let me see him."

The White Witch studied her for a moment, her eyes seeming to bore into the Valiant Queen's soul. "And what will you give me in return?"

The youngest Queen of Narnia chewed on her lower lip, deliberating.

She was a prisoner in the White Witch's castle, and she assumed the Witch had searched her before she woke up.

Rubbing her leather boots together and wondering why the Witch had allowed her to keep even those, she realized that Susan's magical horn was gone. Her dagger, she remembered, had been flung from her hand during the attack. There was nothing she had that the Witch would want, or she figured the woman would have taken it already.

ǁ

Edmund moaned, sagging even further against his chains. It was getting harder and harder to stand up. His legs had grown weak long ago, his knees giving out. Everything ached, but it was a dull sort of aching. He had gotten past the initial pain and he thought maybe he was dying and that was why everything felt so strange.

The Turkish Delight lay untouched on the floor beside him, just out of his reach, where he had kicked it. He was afraid. Afraid the temptation to keep from starving to death would be too strong and he would succumb.

For some reason that he didn't remember, he couldn't eat the Turkish Delight.

Oh, yes, that was it. It represented something horrible, and it would only make him crave more until he did foolish things for it. He remembered that now.

Sighing, Edmund leaned as far as he could against the wall to allow his shaking limbs some respite. There had been no more offers of food after the Turkish Delight came, but there had been no more pain, either, and for that he was glad.

At least now the Witch was leaving him alone.

As if on cue, the door to the dungeons slid open ominously, invading his thoughts. He panicked, sliding back until he could feel his spine grinding into the ice wall behind him. There was no where else to go. He was as far away from the doors as he could get stuck in these chains, but that small distance would not keep him from the Witch for very long.

He squeezed his eyes shut in horrified anticipation, not able to bear the thought of facing the White Witch again. He had tried to stay strong these past few days-weeks?-for Peter's sake, but it was getting harder and harder every time he closed his eyes and dreamed.

Suddenly there was a hand, wrapping around his bare shoulders and pulling him against a warm body. In response, as if his body had just then realized it was cold, he began shivering uncontrollably. Whoever it was offering him their warmth, their comfort, made small crooning sounds and rubbed his upper arms, trying to warm him.

It struck him then that no agent of the Witch would bother to be so gentle.

Warily opening his eyes, knowing this could only be another trick of the Witch to wear him down for...what, he wasn't exactly sure, he glanced up blearily at his new companion in these dungeons.

An angel sat before him, offering him a sad smile as she looked over his many injuries. Her eyes were wide, but that was all of her face that he could make out in the cruel light that had recently invaded the dungeons. There was light, all around her face, a warm, kind light that nonetheless hid her identity from him. He squinted at this being, wondering how this could be real.

He knew the light likely had more to do with his distended stomach and burning back than the fact that she may have been an angel come to rescue him, but it didn't matter to him anymore.

Then the light around her face faded and he found that he recognized this angel. In a horse, cracked voice he whispered, "Lucy?"

He heard her voice as if for the first time then, a voice he had never expected to hear again, a voice that couldn't possibly be real. "Edmund? Are...can you hear me?"

For a moment, his lips wouldn't move, his tongue wouldn't work. He blinked rapidly at her for a few seconds, trying to decide whether or not she was real, then repeated, "Lucy?"

"Oh, Ed!" Lucy fell to her knees on the rock hard ice in front of him, throwing her arms around him and bursting into tears. Her shoulders began shaking and some of her hair fell in face, blinding him and getting in his mouth.

He didn't know how she was here, but her touch was gentle and warm, unlike anything he had become accustomed to ever since the beginning of his imprisonment, and he craved it.

If it was a dream, it was a vast improvement from the nightmares that had been plaguing him, and he didn't mind.

He felt tears filling his eyes, and had he been able to see past her long hair, everything would have still been blurry. Edmund ran a hand through that beautiful, soft hair, twisting his bloodied fingers around each strand that he could reach and fighting back the dry sobs creeping up his throat.

But why was she here? How was she here? Had she come to rescue him? He noticed that her hands weren't even bound. That made no sense.

Finally pulling back, Lucy offered him a watery smile. She rested her hands on his shoulders, unable to let go of him. He took the chance to look her over and knew she was evaluating him in that moment as well.

She wasn't dying or near to it, as she always was in his dreams. Her hair was a fantastic mess and her clothes were ripped but not bloody. That alone relieved Edmund immensely. There was a bit of dirt and blood smudging her forehead, and he frowned at that, lifting a manacled wrist to it. She flinched away at the unexpected pain this caused her, but forced on a smile in the next moment.

As for his sister, the sight of her older brother horrified her, and she found herself wishing she still had her dagger, so she could run the Witch through. It was a rather horrible thought, and, despite everything the Witch had done she regretted it as instantly as she thought it, but the idea wouldn't leave her.

She evaluated him from a healer's perspective, knowing that she could not look upon him as a sister without gagging at how badly he was hurt.

Edmund was skin and bones. She barely recognized him but for the dark mop of hair on his head and those haunted brown eyes, looking as they usually did the morning after a particularly bad nightmare. There were bruises and cuts all over him, and, as her hands slid down his back, she could feel the raised flesh there, evidence of a beating. He wasn't wearing a tunic, and she could count every one of his ribs through his skin. His hands were held back by sharp metal manacles, chafing the skin around his wrists.

A dry sob caught in her throat, and she hugged her brother tighter, closing her eyes.

"Lucy," Edmund repeated hoarsely, his voice sounding harsh and cracked to his own ears. He couldn't remember the last time he had spoken without screaming soon after. "You're alive."

She hadn't been, in his last dream. He knew dreams didn't usually follow a particular pattern, so it didn't make sense to believe that this one would have anything to do with the last, but he couldn't help the thought. She had died so many times since he'd fallen asleep.

He was beginning to wonder how it was possible that she was alive in this dream. Unless it was just another cruel nightmare, and she would be ripped away and stabbed to death at any moment...

Lucy lifted her left hand to wipe at her eyes, sniffing as she did so, and then touched his cheek, frowning at how thin he was. The touch yanked Edmund back to the present. "I'm alive! You're alive!"

Edmund didn't respond, just leaned against her, looking exhausted.

"What has she done to you?" She rubbed her thumb along his jawline, and he flinched at even that small contact, for everything ached.

Lucy made a soft crooning sound, not wanting to pull away from him but cramping at the awkward position. His hands reached desperately for her, his movements almost frantic, and then dropped back down once more with an expression of defeat.

"I knew it was only a dream," he whispered brokenly. "It's not really you, is it?"

Lucy gasped, confusion wrinkling her forehead. "Of course it's me, Ed! Of course it is." She reached forward, resting a hand on his shackled wrist in comfort. "You're alright now." She knew it was a lie, but she couldn't tell if he was lucid enough at this point to see through her words. "I'm here; everything's all right."

Edmund leaned against her, resting his head on her shoulder as she moved closer, and closed his eyes with a relieved sigh. Lucy ran a hand through his raven hair, knowing it was something Peter always did after Edmund awoke from a nightmare to calm him.

Only this was much worse than a simple nightmare disturbing Edmund's sleep. Still, the feel of her hand in his hair seemed to slow down his panicked breathing, if only a little.

"It's all right, Ed," she whispered, feeling tears brimming in her eyes as she now saw the full extent of the damages to Edmund's back. Inflicted by a whip. The thought sickened her as she remembered a time when Edmund had been bothered to talk about what had happened to him while with the Witch.

That was when she saw the Turkish Delight, lying just to the right of Edmund, still and untouched on the ice. Anger rushed through her at the sight of it, and it was all she could do not to tense and therefore worry Edmund. The Witch had done this on purpose, though, for what purpose, innocent Lucy could not fathom.

Edmund let out a whimper then, and it was so unlike Edmund not to try and act strong in front of Lucy especially, even when under the worst imaginable pain, that Lucy frowned in fear, glancing up and meeting his dark eyes. Somehow, those eyes seemed to have gotten older and even more hooded in the time the siblings had been separated.

"Don't be frightened, Ed," she whispered, saying the first words that came to mind. "Peter's coming for us," she leaned closer, just in case the Witch was outside eavesdropping, though she had no doubt the Witch already knew what she was going to say. "He has an army right outside. And Aslan will rescue us soon. We need only wait for one of them to make the first move."

Looking over her undoubtedly broken brother, Lucy felt the first pangs of doubt. There were black bags underneath Edmund's eyes, reaching down to his too-gaunt cheekbones. Blood marred the side of his throat.

How could Aslan have allowed the Just King to go through such pain, sitting by and doing nothing?

No, Aslan always had a plan. He was there for them; he would ensure that all this did not go unavenged. They need only have patience, as she had tried to warn her siblings.

"Brave words," a tauntingly amused and at the same time cold voice interrupted their little reunion, and what little blood was still there rushed from Edmund's face at the sound. The unconscious reaction was awarded a lilting laugh. "Did you miss me, Edmund? Or were you beginning to believe the little Queen?"

Before Lucy could understand what was happening, she was roughly shoved away by her brother. She found herself falling backward and landing on her backside on the ice while Edmund pulled back against the wall as far as he could go, huddling against it and quivering in fear. Lucy tried to rise, tried to reassure him, but suddenly found herself unable to move.

"I knew it!" Edmund hissed, glaring at her like she was some sort of vile fiend. He did not even glance at the White Witch as she strode gracefully into the dungeons, her white gown sweeping around her feet. There was a blood red grin fixed on her face, a grin that froze Lucy to the core.

"Edmund, what-?"

"I knew you were only a dream," Edmund repeated softly, chanting it like a mantra. It was his only thing left to hold onto. She was only a dream, and now the Witch was going to kill her as she always did but that was all right because the Lucy in front of him was only a dream. The real Lucy was somewhere safe, somewhere far from here, with Peter and Susan...

Peter. Soon, he would wake up from this horrific, never-ending nightmare and Peter would be there to assure him that none of it was real.

The Witch stepped up behind Lucy, and Edmund found himself wishing Peter would wake him up quickly.

The look of horror on Lucy's face made him hesitate in his conclusions for only a moment, but then he shoved himself further against the wall and wished for once that he could be buried inside that ice, so that he did not have to go through this again.

"Edmund, I'm not a dream," she said softly, her voice warm like honey, but he didn't believe her for an instant. "Listen to me, Ed, this is real! I'm real! Whatever the Witch has done to you..." she sounded a bit more panicked now.

Horrified by her words, Edmund lifted his shackled hands to cover his ears. Lucy's eyes widened even further, and he found himself sending a thousand apologies to this dream-Lucy.

"None of this was my doing, little Daughter of Eve," the Witch simpered with a wicked smile, trotting forward until she stood next to Edmund. A hand reached out and touched his head, and Edmund let out another terrified whimper, jerking away. His hands slowly came away from his ears, though.

The Witch laughed. "Well, some of it was. The physical pain. Nay, this madness is all his own doing, though I wish I could take credit for it. I suppose, in a small way, I can. The mind is such a...powerful thing. Isn't it, my little prince?" She reached down and picked up the plate of Turkish Delight, holding it out to him temptingly.

Edmund paled, shrinking away from her.

The Witch laughed and allowed him his space. "As touching as this little...reunion was, I am afraid I cannot allow it to last," she said, turning back to Lucy. "I have pressing matters, after all."

Lucy glared at her, wondering what Father Christmas would think of her intentions if she had her dagger in that moment. "You said-,"

The Witch shrugged, still grinning. "I'm afraid your dear older brother is due to arrive any moment now, little Queen, and as much as I would love to allow this to continue-," she motioned towards the now shaking Edmund, "I'm afraid he will not wait, and will likely insist upon seeing you."

Lucy eyed the Witch with confusion and distrust. Her earlier words finally sunk in, and the Valiant Queen paled. "What manner of business do you have with the High King?"

The White Witch bristled at that title. "I am going to offer him a choice that will change Narnia forever. But don't worry," a sudden smile twisted her features. "You'll both be there for the main event. You will hear all about it then."

The door opened and two large ogres came in, carrying axes. Lucy paled. In a moment, she found her hands bound behind her back and she was dragged to her feet. Then one of the ogres stepped towards Edmund, and, lifting his ax, broke Edmund's chains.

The Just King whimpered at the ax came perilously close to his skin, but then his chains were chopped in half. A small length of chain hung from each wrist and each ankle, but he was, mostly, free.

Lucy knew better, though. Edmund was in no shape to try and run. He didn't even look like he was capable of standing on his own.

The White Witch gestured to the door of the dungeons. "Shall we?" she smiled at Lucy.


	13. Aggressive Negotiations

The bounty hunter had been offered men, to travel with him on his search for the boy, but he declined, telling the Tarkaan paying him that he preferred to work alone. It saved time and his patience, which was considerably short with other people, but not so with searching for his prey.

He was beginning to regret that, not for the lack of company but simply for fairing the desert terrain. He had been this far North before, but that had been a long time ago and the last trip had not been so pleasant.

He had found what he assumed to be the boy's tracks, leading to the edge of the city before they disappeared altogether.

But he was not Calormen's best tracker for nothing.

The boy had gone into the city on an errand for the Tarkaan, that much he had learned before leaving the Tarkaan, and he traced the boy's footsteps all the way to the shop to which he was supposed to have gone, on the outskirts of Tashbaan.

There any traces of the boy seemed to have disappeared, as if he was at one moment there, and the next, vanished into thin air. It did not help that the Tarkaan had commissioned the bounty hunter for this task so long after the boy's disappearance, he reflected, or he might have already found the brat.

A thought occurred to him that had not before, as his mind ran over the intricate details of the sand around the boy's tracks. There had been something scraped along the ground in front of the boy, something that distinctly resembled...a burlap sack.

Was it possible that someone else knew who the boy was, and intended to use him as ransom?

The bounty hunter had gone to see the shopkeeper the brat had been sent to then, slipping into his house through the back door near nightfall when there were no customers.

The shopkeeper was a tailor, hard at work at his sewing when the bounty hunter entered; he didn't even look up. He wasn't married, and lived alone. That much the bounty hunter had learned simply by watching him for the day.

The bounty hunter slipped up carefully behind him, coming in through a window, yanking his silver-hilt knife silently from its sheath. It had cost him a few baubles at the market today, but it was a fine knife.

The knife let out a soft ringing when it was removed from the sheath, and that, at least, caught the old tailor's notice. He stiffened, but did not set aside his sewing. Apparently he wished to go out with his trade in hand, literally.

A moment later, the blade was pressed against the tailor's leathery neck, and the bounty hunter could feel the tailor's Adam's apple bob beneath it in fright. It was a thick neck for so thin a man, and he would have to cut deep to draw blood.

"There was a boy who came here, a little over two weeks ago, at the order of two royal blue robes and a silken gown for a certain Tarkaan. Do you remember this boy, O talkative tailor?" The bounty hunter's voice was raspy and cold, though he was beginning to feel hot in the black garb he wore.

The tailor gulped once more, the blade choking him, but he managed to squeak past it, "I remember the order, but not the boy. As I recall, no one ever came to collect it. Now release me, and we can talk about this like civilized people."

The bounty hunter had to admit, he was impressed with the tailor's bravery, but in the end, it would do the man no use.

"You are certain? He was a whipping boy. You would remember him, I think," the bounty hunter demanded, his grip on the knife loosening slightly, but he did not pull it away.

"Yes," the man gasped, as a small trickle of blood made its way down his taut throat and onto the collar of his tunic. "No boy ever arrived here for them. If you would like them, I can go and fetch them for you. But I was promised to be paid when someone picked them up..."

The bounty hunter released his grip on the tailor, and the man slumped forward, gasping for air. He dropped his sewing in an effort to stop the bleeding at his neck.

Then, without another word, he hurried into the other room to get the finished parcels.

By the time he had returned, the bounty hunter was already gone. He had no interest in the Tarkaan's clothes, anyway. His only concern was the boy. The Tarkaan could send someone else to collect the clothes and hope they didn't get kidnapped or run off along the way.

This was turning out to be more interesting than the bounty hunter had originally thought it would be.

He went back around the shop to the boy's shoe prints, and squatted in the sand, studying them carefully, ignoring the people hurrying around him to get home.

The desert was next, and the bounty hunter rode out of the city during midday, taking with him a flagon of water. But there were no signs of the boy in the desert, either, as he might have guessed. In fact, there was no sign of anyone but him.

The only person stupid enough to travel through the desert had to have had help, and a lot of it.

He doubted the boy had such friends in high places.

It was as the bounty hunter was returning to Tashbaan; annoyed at his own failure and wondering how long he had before the Tarkaan grew bored and murdered his sister, that he happened to look East, towards the sea.

Just as a merchant ship was leaving port, headed North, probably to bring trade to Archenland. Its beautiful, full white sails flapped in the wind, the symbol of King Lune of Archenland bright against the afternoon sun.

And the bounty hunter kicked his heels into the nag he rode, swearing bitterly at his own folly.

ǁ

High King Peter glared at the dwarf after the creature finished his conditions for the parley. "She wants me to come into her castle?" he demanded. He hadn't really heard all of the other conditions, stuck on that one, one of the first the dwarf had mentioned. Oreius shifted nervously beside him, glancing up at the side of the valley where the giants of Harfang sat waiting for battle. Their king leered at Peter, as if daring him to start the fighting now.

Peter, Oreius noted, didn't even seem to notice the Giant King.

Peter marveled at this condition. The Witch must truly think him an idiot if she thought he was going to step one foot into her enchanted ice castle. His two siblings were already stuck inside, after all.

The dwarf nodded, glowering at the wolves he deemed entirely too close for comfort. For their part, they were working to retain their growls, hackles rising in silent warning. "And you must come alone. That is one of her conditions, yes."

"Your Majesty-" Oreius began, but Peter cut him off, turning to the dwarf with flaming blue eyes, hand clasping the hilt of Rhindon. The dwarf quaked for a moment underneath that intense gaze, and then looked down, unable to hold it.

"If the White Witch believes me fool enough to fall for that-"

"Her Majesty bids me to remind you that she holds captive your brother and youngest sister now, two of the usurpers to her throne. She bid me tell you that if you do not agree to come and negotiate, she will kill them both and set both of her armies upon you in an instant."

The dwarf seemed to have regained his courage in that moment, if only because the Witch spoke through him in her twisted message.

Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was only after the fact that he realized how hopeless this made him look in front of his own army. But he didn't know what to do. If only Aslan were here, then the lion could shine some light on the situation, advise him about how to best deal with the White Witch.

But Aslan wasn't here, and Peter seriously doubted he was ever going to show up again, considering recent events. This was the darkest period Narnia had been in since the beginning of the Golden Age, and if the Lion was not willing to assist with this...

It didn't matter. His siblings were in there, alone and frightened. Aslan knew what the Witch had been doing to Edmund ever since catching him, and Lucy had just witnessed the deaths of her mice regiment.

He glanced up at the two armies flanking his own and took a deep breath. There was nothing he could do. King Lune had not come to their rescue, and Susan was locked away in Cair Paravel. A negotiation with the Witch, though it screamed against everything Peter stood for, was the only way his army was getting out of this alive, and likely the only way the Narnians were, as well.

Not to mention his little brother and sister.

"I will go to this parley with the Witch," he stated resolutely, before anyone could stop him.

"Your Majesty," Oreius took a step forward, hand lying threateningly close to his sword.

This time, Peter paid attention, turning so that his back was to the dwarf and declaring in a low voice to his general, "I must do this, Oreius. We do not have enough men to win this fight. An agreement can be made."

"What agreement? We both know the Witch will not compromise anything. If you do this, Narnia will belong to her. Your Majesty, we have fought against greater odds before," Oreius tried, desperately, to come up with a solution that wouldn't entitle his king going alone into the Witch's home. He could not see any situation where that turned out well.

"But never without Aslan," Peter countered, wincing slightly at the reminder. Did Oreius think he didn't know the stubbornness of the Witch? She had only consented to spare Edmund last time because she thought she was getting a better prize, in killing the Lion. Because she thought that, without the Lion, Narnia would fall.

Oreius nodded shortly. "Your brother and sister are trapped by the Witch. The Gentle Queen holds Cair on her own, and will fall without our support. Narnia cannot afford to lose you, too, my king, or all is lost. Please, I must protest. We do not know if Aslan will not come soon." The first vestiges of emotion appeared in the centaur's eyes then, and Peter blinked in surprise. He had never seen his general break before, and the sight was enough to let him know how serious the situation was.

"Oreius, I must do this. More than just my life is at stake. And I believe that Aslan has made it quite clear that we are on our own this time." He hated himself, even as he said the words. Somehow, saying them seemed to make them all the more true.

Oreius dipped his head in submission. "As you wish, my King." Then he turned to the dwarf, eyes challenging the creature to refuse him. "But I will go with you."

"No!" Peter and the dwarf said at the same time. The sound of his voice, mingling with this disgusting excuse of a Narnian, made him cringe a little.

Oreius took a step forward, hand on his sword, very obviously daring Peter to refuse him this. Peter shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and leaned forward, voice so low when he did speak that only his general could hear him.

"You must stay here, to rally the men in case...this does not go as planned. And do not forget, that the Witch does not know we sent for help in Archenland."

Oreius glared stubbornly. "You know as well as I do, my king, that if Archenland had gotten our message and intended to help, they would have come by now."

Peter could be just as stubborn when it suited him. "King Lune has never failed us in the past, Oreius."

Oreius clasped Peter's shoulder in warning. "King Lune has not been the same since the kidnapping of his son, my king. I do not think we can depend on him in this."

Peter put a hand on top of Oreius' own, giving him a cool smile. "Just...be prepared for anything. You're the only one I can trust for that."

He pulled away, voice rising, "But I will not be going into the Witch's castle alone. I am not suicidal, after all."

The dwarf looked ready to protest, but Peter beat him to it. "I will be taking my wolf guard with me."

His wolves glanced up in surprise, and then, one by one, grinned evilly at the dwarf. This was one duty they would be honored to carry out.

The dwarf attempted a feeble protest, "Her Majesty's wishes were clear-"

"If 'Her Majesty' is afraid of a few wolves, whom she seemed to have no qualms about in the past, then perhaps we should meet down here instead, where there are far less of them," Peter snapped, sick of all this posturing.

The dwarf blinked, then let out a long-suffering sigh and turned back to his pony, struggling to get back up on it. No one stepped forward to help him. Once he settled, he turned tiny, piercing eyes on the High King.

"If you and your...wolf guard would be so kind as to accompany me," he said through clenched teeth, "the True Queen of Narnia is waiting."

Oreius stiffened at the obvious insult, but Peter ignored it, gesturing for his wolves to follow behind him as he climbed up onto his steed and took off after the red dwarf.

ǁ

The bounty hunter stared hard at the secretary in charge of chronicling ships that landed or took off from Calormen's main port. He was a little, wiry man, wearing loose spectacles, his long grey hair falling down over a tanned face, and he had proved to be most unhelpful in the bounty hunter's search for the boy.

In a way, he reminded the bounty hunter all too much of the unhelpful tailor.

He was beginning to regret all those years he had spent slaving away in the dwarf mines. He had lost his touch, and many of his contacts. And he knew this little man was hiding something, but it had nothing to do with the boy he was looking for.

Rubbing his temples in frustration, the bounty hunter leaned over the secretary's shoulder, trying to make some sense of his scribbled notes. "Are there any ships leaving for Archenland soon?" he demanded, making a choice quickly as the old man's eyesight, helped along by filthy spectacles, simply could not be trusted for this sort of interrogation.

The secretary poured over his notes, absently rubbing the two gold pieces the bounty hunter had given him for his knowledge. "The next one is in two weeks, sir."

The bounty hunter ran a nervous hand through his hair. Two weeks, and any manner of things could have happened to the boy, and he could lose his sister.

"Very well," he turned to go, but then thought better of it, turning back to the old man. "Have there been any...suspicious characters who've left recently for Archenland?"

The old man suddenly lit up. "Come to think of it, yes. There was one talking Narnian beast on one of the first ships this month, a mangy wolf creature whom everyone steered clear of. Shocked me, it did, that such a creature would be brave enough...or perhaps foolish enough to come here, of all places, knowing what the Tisroc, may he live forever, does with them. Alone, he was."

"How long ago?" the bounty hunter demanded, leaning close to the man, one hand on the hilt of his knife. "And the other ships? How long have they have been gone?"

"Well, the first ship left first day of the month, and just recently returned. The other ships were two and three weeks ago, I'd think. Wait, where are you-" the bounty hunter glanced down at the parchments with departure times on them once more, and then disappeared around the corner, "going?"

"Ah, well," the old man shrugged, sitting back down, "but these are nice gold coins."

It wasn't much, but it was all the bounty hunter had found so far, and he might as well be going to Archenland in search of the boy anyway. The Tarkaan had mentioned family there.

But he wouldn't be taking a ship. There simply wasn't time for that. He would have to do something far more suicidal; cross the desert to the North. It would certainly be quicker...if he managed to survive the trip.

But he had done it once before.

ǁ

Peter rubbed his hands together nervously as they neared the White Witch's castle, her faithful gathering in a semi-circle behind and in front of Peter and his wolves. He could just barely make out the Narnian camp in the valley below.

The Castle was much different than it had been when Edmund disappeared through those closing ice doors. Peter remembered an imposing, terrifying ice building, long spires reaching high into the sky. It had been night time then, making it all the more fearsome.

But the castle in front of him now barely looked half as magnificent. Half of it was gone, all that had been ice, Peter assumed wryly. It didn't look nearly as bad as it had the first time Peter had seen it after the Witch's demise. Then, it had hardly been a fortress, more of an ancient relic.

Then they passed through the iron gates, into the castle, and Peter learned the full extent of the Witch's concealment spell.

He gaped, unable to hold shut his mouth as it swung open in shock. As they went through the gate, the ice spires seemed to suddenly appear, ice grew quickly on iron, and the Witch's castle was at least twice the size Peter remembered it being.

The ground, too, was now covered in a sheet of ice where a moment ago it had been dirt. There were even new stone statues sitting in the middle of her courtyard, though not nearly as many as there had once been, and Peter was grateful for that.

And there were hundreds of the Witch's faithful flocking into the courtyard.

The gates closed behind Peter and his entourage ominously, and his wolves let out a few frightened whimpers, the likes of which he had never heard from them before.

One of the Witch's agents let out a snicker at the sound and Peter turned around to glare at it. He wasn't even entirely sure what it was, all covered in muck and dried blood.

When he turned forward again, the Witch was standing in the doorway of her castle. The sight made him jump on his horse, much to the amusement of her agents, and his dogs began to growl fiercely at her.

She paid them no mind, staring intently at Peter, as if searching his very soul. Then she blinked, something he couldn't remember her ever doing, and looked away.

She looked just as he had remembered her; long, flowing hair pulled back, ashen face, and red-rimmed eyes. She wore a long, flowing black gown, much like the one she had worn during the Battle but with lace sleeves and no hair from the lion this time.

Just another reminder that Aslan was nowhere to be found.

He reflected with a grin of triumph that at least her ice crown was gone. At least the Deep Magic still recognized him as High King of Narnia.

The Witch suddenly lifted a hand, and for an irrational moment Peter was frightened that her hand was, in reality, her wand and she would turn him to stone. Then she gestured towards her castle and said, with a smile, "When you're ready, Son of Adam."

Peter blinked at her. "Where are my siblings?"

The Witch simply gave him an amused smile and stepped inside, her flowing gown dragging against the ice behind her. She was gone in the next moment, rounding a corner and out of his sight.

Biting his lip in a vain effort not to call out after her, Peter slid down from his horse and unsheathed Rhindon, wanting to be fully prepared to face her. Rushing up the icy steps, he went through all the tactics Oreius had taught him. His wolves followed after him as he walked inside the castle, their hackles raised in anticipation.

The Witch's faithful did not follow them, nor did the dwarf. Peter wondered briefly at that.

He was just in time, once he entered the castle, to see the Witch's flowing gown round another corner.

Forcing himself not to sprint after her, Peter followed.

He reached the throne room seconds after her, and pulled up, his wolves skidding to a halt behind him.

The throne room was filled with creatures; minotaurs, hags, dwarves, wolves, and, surprisingly, centaurs. That sight pained Peter the most. And there were other Narnians that he wouldn't have expected to join ranks with the Witch, but he was too focused on her to pay them much attention.

As the White Witch walked past her ranks to the throne room, they parted like water before her. There was that same amused smile on her face as she stepped lightly up onto the first step in front of her ice throne, fully restored, like the rest of this horrid castle.

He had never been inside when it was like this, and the result was a little overwhelming. And cold. So, so cold. He was beginning to wish he had worn warmer garments. It was cold outside even now, too cold for summer, but in here it was dead winter.

The White Witch finally came to a stop, inches away from her throne, and held her head high. One of her wolves let loose a howl, and then the Fell Creatures began to chant, "Long live the true Queen of Narnia! May she triumph over her enemies!"

The chant swelled, and Peter could feel the hate-filled glares of the Fell Creatures as the Queen slowly took her seat on the icy throne. A centaur stepped forward and draped a heavy white fur around her shoulders like a mantle.

No, as if it were a crown.

And Peter realized with horror and growing dread that she didn't need to be crowned. Even as he stood there, small icicles started forming, climbing out of her hair in spikes as they once had.

Aslan had truly abandoned them.

Peter took a hesitant step forward, and received the growls of every Fell creature in the room. Rolling his eyes, he turned to the Witch.

"I came here under the impression that you wished to negotiate, Jadis."

Her faithful snarled at that, but the Witch just smiled that same look of amusement, lifting a hand to silence them.

"Empty threats and pointed blades," the Witch grinned down at him, and he suddenly felt dwarfed in this throne room, surrounded by the Witch's agents. He should have never agreed to this.

He wondered if this was how Edmund had felt when he came here to betray them, but instantly threw the thought from his mind. This wasn't anything like that.

Isn't it?

"It seems you haven't changed since the last time we met, Son of Adam. And like the last time, my rights must still be observed."

"Then state your terms," Peter demanded, his voice dripping with venom. "But I'm not leaving here without my siblings, and I'm not leaving Narnia to you again."

"Oh?" she gazed at him in pretend shock. "Then I'm afraid we're at a bit of an impasse, Son of Adam."

He glowered at her. What had she wanted to negotiate for then? Surely she had realized he would never willingly hand over his siblings, or Narnia, to her, no matter how many armies she raised against him.

And when Narnia was devoured in fire and ice, as she had threatened before? Could he even give up his siblings for Narnia's sake then?

No, he would die before then, Peter knew.

"But, fortunately," the Witch continued with that same awful smile, "there are more than one of you monarchs enthroned in Cair. The only time that I've found that fortunate, I think."

Her faithful laughed, but Peter just stared at the Witch in confusion, her words not sinking in.

"What are you getting at?"

"And here I'd have thought you'd have worried yourself sick over your dear siblings." She shrugged, ignoring his question. "I suppose I was wrong, but I thought we could start this with a small reunion."

Peter raised an eyebrow, trying to figure out what she was up to. Then he dipped his head. "How very gracious of you," he muttered between clenched teeth.

The Witch snapped her fingers. "Bring the traitor and Daughter of Eve," she commanded, and Peter suddenly a door to the left slam open. His head spun in that direction, just in time to see four foul looking ogres dragging what may have resembled his youngest siblings into the throne room.

"Ed! Lucy!" Peter shouted, rushing toward his two youngest siblings.

They both looked up in the moment that they were being pulled apart, and gasped in unison at the sight of Peter, standing before the Witch on her throne.

Their reactions beyond that, however, were entirely different.

Edmund tried to run toward him, apparently oblivious to the guards holding him back and his own failing limbs. "Peter!" he shouted, writhing in their grips. It was a wonder he even had the strength to do that.

Looking him over, the High King was appalled by how badly the Witch had treated Edmund. It was a wonder he was still alive, and Peter had a sinking feeling he wouldn't be for much longer.

He was covered in dried blood and mottled bruises, his skin far too pale and dark bags under his eyes. He was far too thin; his pants hanging off his frame. His shirt was gone, and he had to be suffering in this terribly cold place. He was normally skinnier than the rest of them, but this was to the point of starvation, and Edmund hadn't been gone that long.

Lucy stood beside Edmund, a bit more gracefully, hands bound behind her back, arms gripped tightly by two more guards. She looked exhausted, her hair disheveled and clothing ripped in several places, but no where near as bad off as Edmund. She settled for simply saying his name.

"Peter," and he wasn't sure which hurt him more.

One of Peter's wolves snapped then, unable to control herself at the sight of the Just King. She flew forward in a rage, teared bared, lunging at one of the ogres holding the two youngest queens.

Peter shouted for her to stop, not sure how the Witch would react, but the wolf did not heed him.

The ogre flung the youngest monarchs out of harm's way, seeming perfectly willing to meet the wolf in battle, reaching for his ax.

Peter watched in shocked silence as her teeth ripped through the ogre's grey skin, and the creature let out a strangled cry before he was tackled to the ground. The wolf continued to bite at him, blood matting her fur and wetting the icy floor, despite his anguished cries. He was lying flat on his back now, his ax having skidded across the floor. The ogre let out a groan of pain before falling to the ground, still.

Peter's other wolves looked more than willing to follow her, but waited for their High King's command.

The Witch's faithful watched on in silence, some of them eyeing the scene hungrily, grasping their weapons. They were disgusting to Peter, these creatures.

The Witch screamed in fury, a vein popping out on her neck, wand switching into her left hand. Before anyone had the time to react, she stalked forward, and Peter's wolf realized what she was doing at the last instant.

She whimpered and tried to get away, but it was too late. The Witch had turned her to stone.

The sight of the stone statue standing before him made Edmund whimper, and he turned away in horror.

The White Witch turned back to Peter with a scowl, standing in between him and his siblings. Her eyes were blazing with anger, and for a moment he thought she would attack him.

"You promised no violence when you came here for a parley, Son of Adam," the Witch accused.

Peter bowed his head, gritting his teeth and silently mourning the wolf. At the same time, he wished he had the courage to do as she had done.

"The Wolf knew she was not to do that. I do not know what came over her," he snapped, not sounding at all sorry.

With a nod, the Witch returned to her throne, glaring dangerously at Edmund, as if this were all somehow his fault.

One of her minotaurs came forward and dragged the stone statue of the wolf away.

Glancing at the Witch for permission, and hating that he needed her permission to go near his own siblings, Peter hurried forward, his wolves forming a semi-circle around him. When he reached his siblings, the ogres took a step back, as if the fiery look in his eyes had frightened them.

For a moment, he felt awkward, reuniting with his siblings in front of the Witch's army, and the Witch herself, like he was revealing a weakness that the Witch would be glad to exploit. But the feeling was soon shoved from his mind as he came even closer and saw the full extent of the damage done to Edmund.

Peter swallowed. He had thought he would be prepared for whatever horrors the Witch concocted after five years of comforting Ed through unimaginable night terrors, but this...He blinked back tears at the sight of his little brother.

"Are you all right?" He whispered, not sure who he was addressing, Lucy or Edmund. Obviously, Edmund wasn't. Then, he wrapped his arms around them both and pulled them into a gentle embrace.

Edmund melted against him, his feeble, spidery hands clinging to Peter's shirt, too thin, too weak. Peter glanced down and could see the marks of a whip across Edmund's back. Apparently, the Witch no longer thought he was enough of a threat to be bound.

Lucy, on the other hand, just leaned against him, unable to do anything more. He ran a hand through her silky hair, attempting to tame down the tangles.

Peter could feel the hilt of Rhindon pressing into his side, and it was all he could do not to run the blade straight into the Witch after seeing how much she had made his family suffer in the recent weeks.

"Pete," Edmund whimpered against his neck, breath hot and feverish. That worried the High King, but his throat clogged in that moment, and he found he couldn't speak. "I knew it was all just a bad dream. I knew you would wake me up soon."

Peter lifted his eyebrows to Lucy over Edmund's shoulder, but she just shook her head in sadness.

"Ed..." Lucy shook her head adamantly at him, and he changed whatever he had been about to say to "I'm here now," but didn't know how much of a promise it could be to either of his siblings. After all, the White Witch was holding all the cards now.

"What did she do to you?" Peter crooned into Edmund's ear. He couldn't believe his brother had suffered so and he could do nothing yet. He would kill the Witch then and there if he could, but he had been fool enough to come here, and they were severely outnumbered by her army.

It was the wrong thing to ask. Edmund's whole body stiffened and his lower lip began to quiver at some unseen terror.

Peter swallowed. "Never mind, Ed. Doesn't matter," he ran a hand through Edmund's hair and down his neck, in an effort to calm him. It usually worked after Edmund had a particularly bad fright. Peter wasn't sure that it worked this time.

And he promised himself that the Witch would pay for this, peace treaty or no.

Pulling back from them slightly, Peter frowned, the Witch's earlier words sinking in. But before he could say anything, Lucy was whispering hoarsely, "Peter, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone off on my own, this is all my fault."

Peter's eyes widened in horror at her words. "No, no. None of this is your fault. One of your mice guard got back and told me what happened."

Lucy gave him a small smile at that news, that one of them had survived. She had been sure they were all dead. "Who was it?"

And for the life of him, Peter couldn't remember the poor mouse's name. Guilt flashed across his face, but he was saved from having to answer by Edmund, who interrupted softly.

"You'll get us out of this, right, Peter?" It was the most lucid he had sounded so far.

"Where's Susan?" Lucy asked then, her mind spinning. "And why are you alone here?"

The White Witch cleared her throat, and Peter was forced to take his attention off his siblings and turn back to her and her Fell. She had sat down in her throne, white furs draped around her body and the armrests where she lay her porcelain hands. Her neck was exposed.

Peter couldn't help wondering how quickly he would be turned to stone before he could throw his sword at that pale neck.

"I called you in here for negotiations, little king. Believe it or not, I do not want this war anymore than you do." Her face betrayed no emotions, but Peter thought she sounded amused. Her eyes flicked to Edmund after a moment.

She was lying.

Peter snorted at her words, backing away from Edmund and Lucy just in case she did plan on turning him to stone. "I hardly think-"

"I do. The Narnians have suffered enough over the petty wars of those superior to them. Of Sons of Adam and those like myself."

The moment he had moved away from his siblings, the ogres converged back on them, despite the growling wolves trailing Peter.

"There's your first mistake," Peter interrupted, irritation bubbling to the surface.

He had to force himself not to grab Rhindon then and there and attempt to rescue his siblings, had to remind himself that even if they made it out of the Witch's castle, they still had to get past her army. Oreius wouldn't even see that they were in distress, thanks to that concealing spell.

"What?" she sounded surprised he had dared to challenge her.

"Thinking you and I are better than the creatures we rule. That is not what it means to be a king." A swallow. "Aslan taught me that."

The Witch rolled her eyes, significantly less disturbed by the mention of the Lion's name than he had thought she would be. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Aslan had abandoned him. Or Peter's lack of belief these days.

"That name is not welcome in this place," she lectured coldly. "But if you wish to lower yourself to the position of an animal, be my guest."

Her guards, Peter's entourage, and the wolf hovering just behind her throne bristled at that, though her agents were significantly less disgruntled by it than Peter's by the insult.

The Witch folded her hands in her lap then, prepared to state her terms.

"I do not actually care for Narnia itself. I understand that it is yours, now that you and your siblings sit upon the thrones of Cair, and there is, sadly, nothing I can do to stop the prophecy now." Her eyes lingered on Edmund a moment longer than Peter deemed necessary, as if she were deeming how to properly cut him up later.

He didn't believe her words for a moment, with that bloodthirsty look trained on Edmund.

"Then what do you want?"

"What do I want?" she repeated with a smirk. "But I am a Queen in my own right, and I require land to rule. I want all the lands to the North of Ettinsmoor; the lands of the giants. I want you to recognize me as their Queen, and allow me and mine to leave to the North peaceably. And in return, I will let your army go unscathed. I will promise never to harm this land again nor attempt to rest it from you-I swear it by the Deep Magic that controls all of our fates." Her eyes had taken on an almost wild look, Peter noted.

Peter stared at her just as intently as she had been staring at him earlier. She wanted the lands North of Ettinsmoor? Then why in Aslan's name was she setting up an army here? He hated to admit it, but she could have easily taken over the lands of the giants with her army and her magic, just as she had once done in Narnia.

None of this made any sense...

The evil time will be over and done...

Perhaps it was the prophecy. The Witch could no longer hurt Narnia because they were on the throne, and she had just realized this, so she was settling for the North, and the giants. Hadn't that been what the prophecy meant? That she no longer held any power over Narnia?

Somehow the thought they were the only people standing in her way did not comfort Peter as it should have.

Still, he got the feeling he was missing something important here. He knew she was lying, but what did lying grant her in this situation? He suddenly wished he had allowed Oreius to come in with him, to guide him. He felt too small in this castle, surrounded by the Witch's fell creatures, and he hated that feeling.

"And what of Edmund and Lucy?" he demanded.

The Witch smiled cruelly. "If your army would prefer to try and fight mine, and lose to mine, I will not be so kind in my demands."

"You will hand over my siblings if I agree to this?" Peter repeated, testy.

"We must all make sacrifices, Peter dear," she said slowly, and he hated her then. Suddenly, everything she had done since she first came to terrorize Narnia plagued him, and he had no intention of making a deal with her. Better to die in battle against her, for he knew that she had no intention of keeping any deal.

"Even the great Lion realized that. Even your darling...sister realized that."

Peter glared at the Witch, and then her words sunk in and he turned to Lucy in shock. Surely the Witch couldn't mean...?

Lucy wouldn't look at him, staring guiltily at the ground.

"Yes," the White Witch was practically purring now. "Your darling Queen Lucy saw sense some time ago. She has promised the life that is my price for leaving Narnia. Her life. Granted," those eyes had never left Edmund during this entire meeting, "I'd prefer the young traitor, but I suppose she will have to do."

"You're lying!" Peter shouted, raising Rhindon and fully prepared to run the beastly woman through.

"Ask her yourself," the Witch said with a small chuckle.

Peter turned horrified eyes on Lucy. The girl didn't dare look up, but whispered softly, "It was the only way."

Peter raised an eyebrow, turning to the Witch. "She agreed only because you forced her to."

The Witch and her faithful seemed to find that amusing. "I have been nothing but courteous to the Valiant Queen ever since she stumbled into my domain." She didn't bother to deny her treatment of Edmund, Peter noted.

Edmund started struggling in the ogres' grip, all of his nightmares suddenly coming to life before his eyes. The Witch was going to win. She was going to kill him. It was the only thing he could think about. And Peter was just standing there, letting it happen!

Lucy didn't dare move, staring straight ahead, silent but but somehow elegant, despite her captivity and proposed death.

"But my price is not all bad. I only ask for one of your siblings. The Deep Magic will grant me that. After all, if it were me, I would gladly hand over my own sister. And then there will be peace throughout all of Narnia, like you want, and you would no longer have to be bogged down with sharing your throne."

"And if I refuse?" Peter demanded, curtly. He suddenly felt so tired, so sick of the Witch's honeyed words. Sharing his throne? As if that had ever been a bother.

How could Lucy have agreed to something like this, forcing his hand? If only she had just refused to make a deal...

And then he thought of the reason she had made this deal, and turned to look at his brother, Edmund, thrashing in the grips of his guards, not even seeming to notice the world around him. Blood was beginning to drip onto the ice beneath his feet in a small pool, but one sickeningly too large for the High King.

"Soon, you would see my full power, little king. Narnia would be overturned in fire and water if the Deep Magic is not respected. Your precious lion is not here with a loophole to save you this time. Soon, I would be Queen of Narnia, as the Deep Magic has granted by allowing my return. And you, little king, would beg before me by the end. But you will not refuse something your dear sister offered in the first place, surely. I am not patient, Son of Adam."

Peter obstinately shook his head. "You will hand over my siblings and surrender, or we will settle this with blood, Witch."

The White Witch smiled. "When I have an army twice the size of yours? But I see you do not refute all that I have said," she began calmly, something about her voice spinning around in Peter's mind, making him feel tired and pliable. "Tell me, Son of Adam, do you not think it strange that Aslan has not come to your aid? I know you do." She shook her head, apparently amused by Peter's silence.

"Now, I think I've given you more than enough time, Son of Adam. I will make this fairer for you, if that is what you desire." There was that same ugly smile again, and the tiredness that Peter had been feeling a moment before wore off.

"One of your siblings I shall return to you, here and now, as a gesture of my good faith. The other I shall kill. But which siblings shall be killed and which released, you shall choose, if not your sister. It is your duty as High King, after all. That is my price for leaving you to your...previous Golden Age." She sneered at the term.

This was foolishness. The Witch must see that Peter would never give up one of his siblings as a lamb for her to slaughter, not even for Narnia. Even as he thought it, he felt like a hypocrite, but he knew in his heart he could not do as she asked.

And she must have known it, too. She had something else planned. But what could he do?

There was something about her smile that made Peter want to step forward and slit her throat right then and there. He knew there was something wrong with this scenario, that she shouldn't have given up so easily when she had the upper hand, but there was nothing he could do about it.

And then he realized what she was planning.

The moment one of the four of them died by her hand, she had the power to retake Narnia, and nothing would stand in her way, for she would have defeated the prophecy; four wouldn't be sitting on the throne anymore. Killing Edmund was just menial revenge. This was what she really wanted.

And as much as he didn't want one of his siblings killed, it was imperative that they all be saved from the Witch, for Narnia's sake as much as Peter's own sanity.


	14. A Glance Into the Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important: I realize that, in the Horse and his Boy, the Hermit of the Southern March was the only one able to see events taking place in the pool and had to explain what he saw. HOWEVER, my bounty hunter is a bit more skeptic than most, so I am altering this condition for the story's sake.

Queen Susan the Gentle found she hadn't quite been living up to that title of late. In fact, she was beginning to wonder why Aslan had ever called her that in the first place. She certainly didn't deserve such a name. More like Queen Susan the Wreck, she thought idly as she stared down at the parchment she was signing. A document asking Archenland for more resources in their time of need. She didn't dare send to Calormen.

It may have had something to do with how exhausted she was, after running herself dry, as Peter had before he left, attempting to keep Cair safe, bring in more recruits, and sending messengers to the far reaches of Narnia, hopelessly searching for her siblings or the Witch's spies.

She finally appreciated why Peter felt the need to stay up through all hours of the night even though he knew he would be of little help half-asleep. There was far too much to do, and even if she did have the time to sleep, worry kept her awake until she gave up and turned her attentions toward something useful.

This was ridiculous; she shouldn't be here. She should be with Peter, attempting to find their siblings and heading the army against the Witch, after all the Witch had done to them. She needed to be with Peter, her one sibling that hadn't been lost in the last few weeks.

She was beginning to notice a pattern when chaos came to Narnia. Her siblings went off to fight it or were otherwise dragged into it and Susan, mother of the bunch, was left at home to keep house and fret.

She was beginning to hate being holed up in the castle while her siblings were off in danger.

She ground the tip of the ink-dipped feather she was using to write into the parchment beneath her in frustration. And fret she most certainly did.

The apple blossom dryad behind her made a noise to get Susan's attention, and the Queen looked up, blinking at the harsh light of her bedchambers. It was evening, but it might as well have been midday.

She had been stuck in these chambers for half of the day, signing so many documents she was beginning to forget what they even were for. One of the centaurs in charge in Oreius' absence was training the troops, and they were all just...waiting. The dryad attending her had brought the evening meal, but Susan hadn't eaten it.

She doubted she could keep it down.

It was sitting on her dresser even now, untouched.

Susan was dressed in a long black gown, with frilly lace around the sleeves and neck. She was wearing her crown, the golden circlet with flowers, and today it was resting rather heavily on her head.

"Are you quite well, my lady?" the dryad asked in concern, her musical voice cutting through Susan's dismal thoughts.

It worried her that less talking beasts were coming to join the army Susan was supposed to be building to defend Cair from the Witch or Calormen, if they happened to take advantage of Narnia's situation. She had already built up a formidable army already, five times larger than the one Peter had taken against the Witch, but where the recruits had come pouring into Cair's gates only days ago, their numbers had reduced to a small trickle.

Either Narnia had run out of talking beasts overnight, or they were too frightened to fight against the Witch. Susan just didn't know how to change their minds.

Taking a deep breath, Susan returned her attention to the dryad with a light smile. "What, of course."

The dryad appeared to doubt this answer, but didn't question her further. With a sigh, Susan turned back to her signing, leaning over the little wooden desk Edmund had furnished for her last year, the light of the candle beside her hardly necessary.

Edmund...

All at once, a feeling of melancholy descended on her, and Susan had to bite back her tears. If only Edmund were here, beside her, then none of this would be so horrid. Susan wouldn't have to be the only one protecting Cair, Lucy wouldn't have gone off on her own...

If Narnia's current government descended into madness, her monarchs spread thin, the White Witch would take advantage of that. Susan had to maintain the laws, maintain control now.

But she would be able to do her responsibilities much better if only she knew that Lucy and Edmund were safe.

Edmund, who had been stolen away while he was ill and was still gone. There had been no word of him in weeks, just as there had been no word of Lucy since she ran away.

She had failed him. It was all Susan's fault that he was gone now, gone off and kidnapped, likely by the Witch. She had known that he was ill, had seen with her own eyes that he was in no fit state to be out of bed, but like a fool she set aside her instincts and let him go.

If Edmund didn't return to her now after she had been responsible for his disappearing, she didn't know what she would do.

The dryad behind her leaned forward, features etched with concern, pink blossoms of her hand floating up against Susan's skin. The touch felt cool and Susan leaned into it, closing her eyes as the flowery fingers touched her forehead. For a moment, she could imagine that the dryad's flowery shape was a real hand, her mother's hand, comforting her after a long day...

That was strange. She hadn't thought of her mother in so long, the woman's face forgotten to her ever more, each year she spent in Narnia. She wondered when was the last time any of her siblings had thought of their mother, had thought of that strange other world, the one they came from.

That other world seemed so unimportant, now, in lieu of all of their current problems.

The dryad shimmered, disturbed by something. "When was the last time you slept, Your Majesty? You are exhausted."

Susan sighed. "How could you tell?"

The dryad gave her the thinnest of smiles, her musical voice nearly lulling Susan to sleep. "I've seen that look of exhaustion many times before, in your brother the High King's eyes, my lady. Come now. You should rest. You have run yourself thin since taking over the responsibilities of all of your siblings. They were not meant for one person, my queen."

Susan nodded, a little breathless as she pulled herself to her feet and then straightened her dress modestly. "There is simply so much to do," she said with a soft sigh. "I'm afraid I shall never get everything done on time."

The dryad shook her head. "You are no use to Narnia half-dead, my queen," the dryad said softly, and Susan acquiesced.

"Very well," she nodded once. "I shall rest. But you must go and rest as well; I've been keeping you about all day, and you must be just as tired as I am."

The dryad smiled. "Thank you, my lady," then she was gone, disappearing in a swirl of flowers out the open window.

Susan hadn't realized the window was open. It was cold and she shivered, annoyed at her human weakness. This was a trick of the White Witch. It was really summer. There was no reason to be so cold.

Susan walked over to the window and slammed it shut. She was exhausted, as the dryad had said. She needed to sleep, and if she fainted in the middle of an important meeting tomorrow, of course she would never forgive herself. Her whole body ached from lack of sleep, and she felt as though her eyelids might shut at any moment.

But surely Edmund, wherever he was, was going through much worse than she.

She still had to get changed, put away the papers she had been signing as a precaution in case anyone tried to steal them, and put out her clothes for the morning, as she had dismissed the dryad before she could do so.

The thought made her step away from the bed she had almost convinced herself to lie down and fall asleep in. It looked uncomfortable; none of the sheets had been made since the night before, and she was too cold to sleep without them.

Before she really knew what she was doing, Susan left her room and wandered down the hallway into Edmund's, stopping at the threshold.

She hadn't been inside since Peter and Lucy had left, unable to face the empty room, empty because of her failure to her little brother. But now, she wanted nothing more than to go inside and find him there, laughing at this magnificent prank that he had pulled, no matter what her mind told her was the truth.

She pushed the door open, looking around at the room, left exactly the same as it had been on the day of Edmund's disappearance, exactly as Edmund liked it. None of them had the heart to even clean it. There was a thin layer of dust on everything, and Susan's nose twitched.

Memories assaulted her as she stepped over the threshold and Susan gasped, clutching at her forehead.

Lucy and Edmund, laughing as they watched their newest prank on Peter out that very same window, and then quickly ducking when Peter looked up.

Edmund, sharpening his sword, a present that year from Father Christmas, that look in his eyes as though this were the fines gift he could ever have.

Lucy, going to Edmund to cry after she failed the healer's test the first time she took it, and though he never sought out her for comfort, he always managed to cheer Lucy up when she was sad.

Edmund, standing before the mirror with that solemn, inquisitive look in his eyes, as if he didn't quite know what he was looking for.

A single tear slipped down Susan's cheek then, running along her chin and dripping down onto the floor below. She swayed on her feet, thinking she wouldn't even be able to make it back to her own room now, so tired was she.

She wanted to leave then, to leave and go back to the safety of her own room, where she couldn't be plagued by guilt; only worry. But she stayed, walking further into the room despite her better judgment and eventually sitting down on the bed. She needed this. She needed them to mother over, as much as they needed her to mother them.

The memory of all four of them together, one of the last times they had been so, drifted into her mind as she sank down onto the bed. Edmund was ill, but at least they were all together.

She had a horrible premonition, one that she could not shake, that said they would never all be together again.

ǁ

Susan awoke the next morning with a shiver, and pulled the blankets tighter around her body, snuggling her head underneath the pillow in an unconscious attempt to find warmth.

She did not remember falling asleep in Edmund's bed, only knew that it was much more comfortable and warm than her own had been the last few days and she did not want to wake up. For waking up would mean admitting that she was in Edmund's room and not her own, and that Edmund and Lucy really were gone, and Peter might as well be never coming back.

Eventually, Susan crawled out from under the blankets. It was freezing in here, and the blankets were doing little to keep her warm. Although the thought of crawling out from under them made her shiver even more, she needed to start a fire for the warmth it would offer.

The fact that it was that cold made her worry about her siblings even more. Surely this much cold in summer meant that the White Witch was winning. It was colder than late autumn, now.

It was not until she lifted her head and glanced out Edmund's window that she realized just how much things had changed overnight.

Edmund disliked glass; it reminded him of ice. So his window was a small square hole in the wall near his bed. It reminded Susan of a prison, but Edmund liked it that way. It was high up, and she could easily shut it from here. Now, though, she found it irritating, since she had to practically stand on the bed to actually see outside.

Her heart froze in her mouth, and her eyes widened slightly as she lifted both hands, resting them against the windowsill to support herself.

The first thing she noticed was the snow, falling at a steady rhythm from the sky, white droplets landing on her nose as she stuck her head outside and saw her breath fog in the cold. A heavy sheet of snow layered the ground, and it looked as though it had been snowing all night. There were icicles hanging from the window, and from many of the bemused trees standing in the courtyard, long and wide.

The Witch had grown even more powerful than Susan had feared.

So it was with total relief that the Gentle Queen noticed the second strange sight outside Edmund's window. A grin split across her face, and she reflected that Narnia might not be so lost after all. She couldn't remember the last time she had smiled anymore, either.

She wondered that she had not awoken at the sound of their arrival.

She jumped down from the bed, rushing out the door and down the hallway before she realized that she was still in the clothes she had worn yesterday, and they were stiff from the tears she had shed on them the night before.

She paused, deliberating, and then decided that getting dressed for the occasion could wait, something the Gentle Queen would have balked at a month or two earlier.

The Gentle Queen kept going, hiking up her skirts in an effort to move faster, down to the end of the hallway, and then down a long, winding flight of stairs that seemed to go on much longer than she remembered.

As she ran, she passed a mirror mounted on the wall, and just barely caught a glimpse of herself in it. What she saw made her smile as she imagined just what Lucy would say.

Her hair was a trussed up mess, flying up around her head, and the dress she wore was crinkled all over the place. She had forgotten stockings or slippers, and her bare feet stuck out from underneath the too-stiff dress. There were tear streaks dried on her face.

If any of her siblings had caught her like this, she would have been mortified. They would have never stopped teasing her about it.

Susan, who always made sure Edmund's hair was slicked back, at the risk of looking like a mother cat washing her kitten. Susan, who always scolded Lucy for forgetting her mittens and insisted they return for more. Susan, who insisted on brushing Peter's hair whenever anyone important came to visit because he simply "couldn't be bothered to do it right otherwise."

She wanted to laugh, but instead she kept going, nearly tripping over herself in an attempt to get to the bottom of the stairs.

When she finally reached the bottom, she ran into, surprisingly, Mr. Tumnus, who was scuffing his hooves together at the bottom of the steps. She wanted to fly past him and keep going, but he took hold of her arm before she could do so.

"My lady," he said, always more courteous around her and the older siblings than he ever was around Lucy, with whom he acted like a child, "He sends a message for you, that he will wait for you outside. He wishes to continue as quickly as possible to aid your siblings, after all, and stopping for a rest will only prolong their problems."

Susan nodded breathlessly, pulling her arm out of Mr. Tumnus' grip, and walking forward in a much more composed manner, smoothing down her skirts and straightening her hair, which she had not even bothered to brush. She was sure he would look on her as some wild woman when she opened the door to Cair looking like this.

When she reached the front gates to the palace, the Queen ordered that they be opened immediately, and the two talking beasts standing guard (a wolf and a herring) were perfectly obliged to do so, ecstatic looks on their faces at the prospect of some much needed help.

Susan fidgeted like a little girl as she stood in the middle of the courtyard, feeling the snow beneath her feet sink into her bare toes, soaking them, and knowing that if Lucy were here she would never hear the end of it; her attire. Her feet would soon be frozen if she stayed out here for long. She should have at least grabbed a coat to wear.

Of course, all of her coats were hidden away in the place where Susan organized all her wintery clothes during the summer. Lucy, wherever she was, must be laughing.

Well, if Lucy were here, she would look nothing like this, Susan supposed.

The palace looked rather shabby from outside, Susan noticed as she turned to look at it for the first time in-hang on, she couldn't remember the last time she had been outside to look at the palace. Guilt washed through her as she realized that the inside of the palace didn't look much better. A few of the windows were wide open, and snow was falling into them unnoticed, likely soaking the floors inside. The crimson and gold flag of Narnia hung from the towers limply, and it lacked the regal majesty that Susan usually noticed about the place.

Sighing, Susan turned to face their rescuers as they rode towards the palace. There were...so many of them!

She had to admit, the Gentle Queen had not thought Archenland would come to their aid. The delegation Narnia had sent had never returned, and no messages had been sent. Not that she would have held King Lune guilty if he had refused to come. After all, he was still mourning the loss of his wife, as well as the kidnapping of his child, who was as good as lost. He had barely lifted a finger in the last few months, but to please his younger and only remaining child, Prince Corin.

All in all, his refusal to send aid would not have surprised her, but the fact that he had pleased her beyond words.

With this many soldiers riding into Cair Paravel to fight the Witch alongside Peter's army, perhaps Narnia was not as lost to the Witch as she had feared only minutes before. They seemed to fill the whole countryside, the hills beyond Cair blotted with hundreds of uniforms and horses.

As if the weather sensed her cheery thoughts and wished to dissuade them, a gust of wind pushed snow into her face, and Susan shivered in annoyance, glancing up at the snowy sky. The sun blinked down at her every few moments from behind the gusts of snow.

A moment more, and King Lune of Archenland, amidst all of his splendor and the splendor of his entourage, rode into the courtyard astride a dumb horse. Susan had to resist running forward and embracing him the moment he got down from his war horse, knowing it would not be a very queenly thing to do.

King Lune handed the reins of his horse off to the young boy who had been running alongside him, and said something to his general before turning his attention on Queen Susan.

He smiled, that jovial, fatherly smile that always reminded Susan of the father she could hardly remember and made her feel less worried, and embraced her.

"Queen Susan," he said, pulling back. If he noticed the nightgown and bare feet, he said nothing of it. "I am glad you are still safe within these walls." He glanced around at Cair as if seeing it for the first time and frowned. His words were soft, and he lacked the usual pep that Susan so loved.

She could have used a good cheering.

"Yes, but my siblings are not," Susan said softly, some of her worry sneaking back into her voice. "I cannot thank you enough for coming to our aid, Your Majesty. I fear-" her voice broke then, and she lifted a hand to cover her mouth in anguish.

Taking a deep breath, King Lune turned serious at the sight of her in pain. "I only wish that I'd had the sense to come sooner, my lady. Perhaps some of the pain you have gone through could have been avoided then. I have been...selfishly quiet towards Narnia these past few years. But your ambassadors have been very persuasive, and would not leave until I had pledged my troops. I am happy to be of service in any way that I can now that I am here. Where is your brother now?"

Susan bit her lip, thinking he was speaking of Edmund. "He's been made a captive of the Witch, I believe." Her voice choked on the last few words.

King Lune's face was white, almost as white as the snow beneath her cold feet. She shivered. "How did the Witch manage to return to the land of the living anyways, Queen Susan?"

Susan shook her head. They didn't have time for this. Any second now, Edmund or Lucy or Peter could die. They needed to leave. Now. She could feel that something horrible was happening, something like the premonition she'd had the night before.

She would not lose her siblings. She could not.

King Lune noticed her shivering and frowned once again at her bare feet, buried beneath the snow. Without a thought, he pulled off his own cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders, and would have picked her up and placed her on his war horse for warmth had she not lifted a hand to stop him.

"There is little time, Your Majesty. I will tell you everything on the way."

King Lune's forehead crinkled. "On the way? To where?"

"Why, the White Witch's palace," Susan said softly, clapping her hands for a horse. One of the servants-a brown war horse hanging back near the gates- was quick to oblige.

King Lune sighed, taking hold of her bare arm before she could mount the talking beast. He admired Susan's fierce loyalty to her siblings and to Narnia, but this was bordering on ridiculous. "My lady, perhaps it would be best if you...prepared for the journey first." He nodded discreetly to the nightgown she was still wearing, and the state of her hair.

He sighed, shaking his head and smiling slightly at the young queen. Gentle she may be when she wished, but she was as fierce as a lioness protecting her cubs when she wished to be.

He only hoped that would be enough to defeat the Witch.

Susan blushed, once again almost glad that her siblings were not here to witness her state of disarray, and pulled his cloak more carefully around her, tying it at the neck.

"You are right, of course." She climbed down quickly from her horse. "I will return in ten minutes." Then she was gone, running in bare feet across the snow and into the castle before King Lune could get in another word.

Once she reached the inside of the palace, Susan pulled aside an eagle and ordered it, "Go to my brother's army outside the Witch's old fortress and let them know that King Lune is coming."

The bird dipped his head, unfolding his magnificent brown wings. "Yes, my lady."

ǁ

The bounty hunter let out a groan of pain, and his eyes shot open. Panicking for a moment as he took in his surroundings, he sat up, and his head banged painfully against a curved stone wall behind him. Dizziness swept through him, and he fought down the urge to vomit.

"Lie still," a soothing voice crooned, and a hand was pushing him back down onto the bed made of straw or grass; he couldn't tell which. "You have been through quite the ordeal."

The bounty hunter sighed, too weak to fight against the pale hand settling him back into the straw he was lying in. He hated to be at the mercy of others, if even for a few moments, though, so in a moment his eyes were blinking open and he gazed around in half-irritation. Most of that irritation was focused on the pain in his ribs though, and not his dwelling.

He was in what appeared to be a small house, made of yellow stone and curved at the ceiling like a dome. All around him, though, there was grass and flowers and not the expected floor to a home. In the middle of the room, there stood a large round pool, and he blinked at it in surprise.

What an odd dwelling. He supposed the view might have been beautiful if he were truly paying attention to it. In Calormen, the wealthy kept their gardens in plain view as a sign of their great fortunes. Why would the barbarians of the North hide theirs indoors?

Daylight was streaming in through the open windows in the walls. It was cold here, and he shivered unconsciously. He had forgotten how little he liked the North. He had no idea how these barbarians could stand such weather, all year long.

He looked up at his nurse for the first time; an old man with wrinkled grey skin and a long, white beard. The skin was sagging around his concerned eyes, and he was rather thin. He was wearing pale white robes, loose on his small body, and sandals. There was a bowl of water beside the old man, which he dipped a warm cloth in before pressing it against the bounty hunter's forehead once more.

The bounty hunter lay there for a moment, studying this old man. He did not appear to be wearing any weapons, nor did he seem dangerous in any way. He was too old to move quickly, and too thin to be hiding muscles underneath that tunic. He would be easy to eliminate, if the bounty hunter found the need to do so. He could kill him with his own bear hands.

But the man was helping him, for now.

"Where am I?" he demanded of the old man, the owner of this strange home, his voice coming out like a croak. He awkwardly cleared it and tried again.

The old man frowned deeply at him. "You are in Archenland, on the outskirts of it, at any rate. I found you, near dead, by my hermitage last night. I would not have found you at all if not for..."

The bounty hunter scoffed. "You live here?" There was proof enough of the Northerners' barbarianism. Living in houses that had grass floors...

"Yes," the old man answered truthfully, not sounding at all ashamed. "And I have been alone for many years before I was graced with your presence yesterday evening. You are from Calormen. You are far from home."

The bounty hunter rolled his eyes. "Indeed," he said coldly, struggling to sit up. The old man put a hand on his back to guide him, and his eyes flashed at this. "What part of Archenland am I in? Are we close to Anvard? And how did you come across me?"

The last thing he remembered was the sight of trees and an oasis as he finished his trek through the desert. He had been half-dead at that moment, and the horse had collapsed from exhaustion the day before. He'd been forced to leave it, glad to get away from the sweaty animal, but had been unable to carry most of the horse's supplies with him and was forced to leave those, as well.

Upon seeing the welcome trees of the North-something he had never felt such gratitude for before- the bounty hunter had gone down on his knees, cursing his weak flesh for being unable to go further when he was so close.

"I found you, just outside my door. Near dead, you were. Many have made that journey, but few have reached the other side alive." The old man blotted his neck now, but the bounty hunter pushed his hand away. "We're not far from that place now," he said with a shrug. "Outskirts of Archenland, a day's ride from Anvard, I believe. Not that I often make that journey. I am the hermit of the Southern March, you see, and so you shouldn't be asking me for directions anywhere far from my hermitage."

The bounty hunter felt a blinding pain at the base of his skull as he pushed himself to his knees. No! He did not have time for this. Every moment he did not devote to finding the barbarian brat was a chance that his sister would be killed. A chance he was not willing to even entertain in his thoughts.

"Thank you, then," he said softly, wondering when had been the last time he was willing to thank someone for anything. It was not something he often did. "For saving my life."

The old man nodded. "You're welcome. But tell me; why did you travel here by the desert? It would have been far easier to go by ship."

The bounty hunter thought quickly. He doubted any of the people of Archenland would appreciate his coming here to steal back an escaped barbarian slave, especially if his family was powerful enough that the mother's abduction had caused such a stir. Archenland and the free lands of the North did not condone slavery, and though they mostly got along moderately well with Calormen, they were known to allow escaped slaves their freedom...if they made it across the desert.

"I am a slave," he admitted with a dull smile. "I was...hoping to find freedom in coming to the North. That is why I went by the desert route rather than by ship." It was more or less the truth, in a way, he supposed, though the bounty hunter's conscience would not have suffered had he lied to this hermit. He thought of the dwarf mines where he had been treated as less than a slave the past several years as he spoke, thought of the freedom he and his sister would have when he finished this mission.

The hermit made a soft, sympathetic noise and made to rise. He looked as if he wanted to comment, but did not. Instead, he dusted off his hands on the worn old tunic he wore and turned away from his patient.

The bounty hunter attempted to follow, and collapsed. The old man pushed him back down into the grass with surprising strength, saying, "No, it would be better if you lay here and rested. At least until you have the strength to stand."

The bounty hunter sighed. "But I must get to Anvard as quickly as possible," he said coldly, annoyed that the hermit had stopped his progress after it was so difficult to get up in the first place.

The hermit kept walking, ignoring his demands, back turned. "Then you must rest and recover, or you will die on the way there. Perhaps...now would not be the best time to get to Anvard. You should wait until you are rested and until...things grow more peaceful there."

The bounty hunter somehow managed to push himself up on his elbows at that information. He winced at the pain it caused his body. He had been in far worse scrapes than this; why was it having such an effect on him?

"And what, pray tell, is happening in Anvard that you think it would be safer for me to stay here?" He was getting to the end of his patience.

Had the barbarians attacked each other? If so, if his mission did not succeed, he could always go back and report this to the Tisroc, may he live forever. It would be a welcome opportunity for Calormen, and perhaps it would save his sister's life.

The hermit paused in front of the strange round pool in the middle of the courtyard, swirling a hand through the water and finally glancing at the bounty hunter with cool eyes. Something about that gaze...unsettled the bounty hunter and he looked away quickly. It was as if those eyes had seen too much.

"I know not who you are, friend, but I know that you do not come here as an escaped slave. If anything, you are still one, subject to the whims of yourself and your master."

The bounty hunter raised an eyebrow at him, reaching instinctively for a weapon and finding that his dagger was not in its usual place. He glanced around, forcing down the surprising emotion he felt at the missing weapon. There was a bucket a few paces away. He could improvise if necessary.

"Forgive me, humble hermit, but to what are you referring? We have never met before, and I am not your friend." The last few words came out like a threat, and he cringed. He had not meant to sound like that. Right now, he was entirely at the hermit's mercy. The bounty hunter had to at least keep up the appearance of being civil, even if it was the worst humiliation he had ever felt, lowering himself to the likes of a barbarian.

He still could not believe that Tarkaan had slept with one of them. Then again, it was rumored that Rabadash the Stupendous wished to wed one of the barbarian queens. If that was still his title. The bounty hunter had been in the mines for a while, but that was what the prince was last going by.

The hermit nodded, eyes trailing down into the pool. It stood about as high as his waist and he seemed enthralled by it. "That is so. Nevertheless, I have Seen. You came here to save a life, I know not why or how, but I do know that this is the truth. The life of a young woman."

The bounty hunter stiffened, standing up despite the hermit's warnings as he suddenly remembered stories he had heard as a child of the horrifying creatures who served the Lion to the North, and knew some of the demon's tricks.

Pain racked through him as he stood, and he clutched at his side, glaring at the old hermit. He hadn't felt this much pain in a long time, and if the hermit knew the tricks of the Lion, than perhaps he had been purposely injured, and these injuries were not just from the desert. He swore at the dizziness that assaulted him just by standing, cursing his body for being so weak.

Everyone in Calormen knew that the Lion did not have their best interests at heart, though the barbarians always insisted that it did. Of course; it was their demon that they sicked on the Tisroc's armies (may he live forever).

"How do you know all these things?" the bounty hunter demanded, not bothering to deny any of it. What would be the use in that? The hermit had already shown he could see through the bounty hunter's lies. He would likely have to be eliminated.

The bounty hunter eyed the bucket. It was a crude weapon, but if he smashed it hard enough against the hermit's skull...

His skills were not always used in hunting, after all.

"Calm yourself, my friend. I mean you no harm." Something about his voice made the bounty hunter want to believe him, want to trust him.

In his experience, that never meant anything good.

He lifted an eyebrow, trying to look intimidating. Unfortunately, his side chose that moment to send another harsh draft of pain through him, and he flinched, pressing a hand to his ribs. When he brought it away, he was surprised to find that it was not bleeding.

"I have Seen," the old hermit repeated, and the bounty hunter resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the cryptic words. Before he could speak, the old hermit continued, "And now there is something that you must See."

The bounty hunter eyed him warily. "See?"

"Here," the hermit walked over to him suddenly, quite spry for an old man, grasping his forearm in support and leading him towards the pool. An irrational fear hit him. Perhaps the hermit planned on drowning hm, while he was still too weak to fight back...

He glanced back longingly at the bucket.

"Where are my weapons?"

The old man's forehead creased as he struggled to support the bounty hunter's weight. "I did not think it wise to leave them with you while you were injured and delirious," he said finally, after realizing that the bounty hunter had no intention of moving forward until he answered. "I will give them back to you when you leave, of course. But this is a hermitage, a place of peace and reflection. Weapons are not welcome here."

The bounty hunter was tempted to retort at that, but thought better of it and allowed the wrinkled old man to guide him to the pool, wondering what his sister would think of him now. Being led around by an old man...

As if on cue, the wound in his side began to burn and he gasped out in pain, doubling over. The old man's face was instantly etched with concern, and he frowned deeply.

"Let me see," his voice ordered, but the bounty hunter shoved him away with the last vestiges of his strength, even as he fell to his knees.

"Stay away from me, old man!" he snapped, his voice sounding raspier than he had intended.

The old man looked hurt for a moment, and then slipped away, out of the domed courtyard. The bounty hunter saw his chance and cursed his weakness. He could be gone before the old man even returned, but something besides his injuries caused him to stay.

He couldn't have possibly imagined what possessed him when the man returned, stirring a cup.

But the old man seemed so nonthreatening as he held out a clay cup of some strange smelling liquid to the bounty hunter without speaking. He didn't understand where the hermit had gotten the cup from, as he hadn't had it a moment ago and the bounty hunter had been watching him this entire time.

"You must drink this if you wish to be on your way soon, then," he informed the much younger man.

The bounty hunter raised both eyebrows as he sniffed at the strange potion. A moment ago the hermit was saying he couldn't leave, and now he must be on his way?

Sighing, he took a sip. The stuff was foul to taste, but he'd had much worse before and he recognized that there was nothing in it to harm him. He downed all of it quickly before turning to the hermit and the pool in idle curiosity. Evidently, the hermit did not think it time for him to leave yet, and he had no idea where the strange old man would be hiding his weapons, so he stayed.

Besides, he did not think he would make it far on his own.

He was beginning to think that perhaps the hermit was not working for the Lion creature, but was simply mad.

The hermit stirred his fingers in the pool, and when the water settled again, the bounty hunter blinked at it in surprise. The shadow of the roof was not present in the pool, nor were the reflections of any of the small trees the hermit had planted in this odd, indoor garden. For that matter, neither was the reflection of the bounty hunter or the hermit.

Instead, the pool that was somehow clear and calm at the same time, was cloudy and seemed to be reflecting something, but whatever that something was, the bounty hunter could not see it. He squinted, bending down over the pool and setting down his clay cup on the side of the pool.

The hermit began to speak then, in an odd, soft voice that reminded the bounty hunter of his father, telling a bedtime story. He had not thought of his father in a long time. In his experience, it was useless to think on the dead.

"This pool can show me events happening right now, anywhere in the world that might be important. It shows me anything from a Narnian, foraging, or King Lune, starting off on his journey to Cair Paravel. It can show me the Tisroc in Calormen, writing another letter of proposed matrimony to some maiden, or the Governor of the Lone Islands stocking fish for the fall. Yet I cannot hear nor fully understand the significance of what anyone says."

The bounty hunter stared at the water for a moment. It obviously held magical properties; even he, a stern skeptic of all things magic, could not deny that. What he did not understand was why the hermit was telling him these things, and why he could not see them for himself, if the hermit could. Perhaps the hermit needed to say an incantation for these things to be seen. It was common enough amongst the fraud magicians in Calormen.

"I understand there is something you would like to see," the hermit encouraged suddenly, and the bounty hunter blinked.

"Can you see specific things if you wish?" the bounty hunter asked in surprise.

"I can see many things. What is it you would like to watch?" the hermit asked.

The bounty hunter almost immediately said his sister, wherever she was now, that he might know she was safe, but then another thought occurred to him suddenly. "Can I see these things?"

There was a slight pause. "If Aslan wills it."

"There is a young boy who I came here looking for," the bounty hunter said in a rush, careful not to give away too much information lest the hermit turn against him in favor of a fellow countryman. "He is a barbarian, like yourself, and hardly more than a child. He is likely in danger here." He must confess, he said as little as possible to see if the magic mirror, or whatever in Tash's name it was, really worked.

The hermit was silent for a moment, and then he cleared his throat, obviously trying to get the bounty hunter's attention.

Startled, the younger man glanced down, not realizing he had taken his eyes off the pool, and his eyes widened in shock.

The cloudy water which had a moment ago filled the pool was now receding, and a much different image had taken its place, an image which the bounty hunter, unused to the barbaric creatures allowed to run loose in the North, took a moment to understand.

It was an image of a young boy, with dark unnaturally long hair obscuring his gaunt features. He was clothed in rags. His hands were bound to his sides. It was as if the bounty hunter was seeing him from a great distance, and the boy's face was rather blurred. However, the bounty hunter could just make out the two creatures flanking him- a wolf and a rather horrific looking creature that the bounty hunter did not wish to contemplate. Whatever it was, it was hideous and looked almost...gleeful.

No wonder the Tisroc wished to be rid of these creatures, once and for all.

The creatures surrounding the small boy shoved him forward mercilessly, and he stumbled, nearly loosing his footing and sprawling into the dirt, gasping. The wolf grabbed the back of his tunic between its teeth and yanked him upright once more.

The bounty hunter squinted at the boy. He never could tell how old children were by looking at them, but he supposed this one could be about the right age. The Tarkaan had never mentioned a specific age, after all. And he was paler than the bounty hunter had imagined him to be, being half- Calormen, but he supposed that could also be a result of the obvious blood loss.

For he could see that the boy was indeed bleeding, from a wound to the forehead, and looked as though he might faint at any moment. His face was terribly pale.

Then there was a woman, tall and regal, standing in front of a large stone table, with a long, bejeweled knife in her grip, fingers wrapped tightly around it. She was pale, much paler than the boy, with blood red lips that were twisted into a wicked smile. A long gown adorned her body and she was beautiful, for a barbarian, but decidedly evil.

The bounty hunter had heard a tale once, of a little Calormen girl who had been kidnapped by the barbarians and used for a terrific blood sacrifice. He supposed the story was used to scare children into disliking the barbarians when they were young, and had never given it much credence.

Now, though, he was beginning to wonder if the boy had run away on his own accord after all. It was certainly looking more and more like something far sinister had happened.

But why one that was partially one of their own? He could only assume that these barbarians were sick-minded and simply could care less.

Before he realized what was happening, the image in the waters began to float away, sinking beneath the murk of the hermit's pool once more. In a moment, the bounty hunter was staring at his own, albeit foggy, reflection in the pool.

The bounty hunter swore, bringing his fist down into an awful splash in the pool and causing the hermit to startle. The water quickly settled, but brought along no more images with its calming.

"Where did it go?" the bounty hunter demanded, whirling on the hermit in a rage. He had been so close... What was he to do now? He had no way of identifying where the boy had been, or even if that was the right boy. "Bring that back, I needed to see it!"

The hermit swallowed thickly. "I cannot," he said, after a moment's hesitation. "I do not...have not the power to control this pool, yet." He sounded rather shaken by what he had seen. So. Perhaps not all barbarians approved of these strange sacrifices.

The bounty hunter ground his teeth together in frustration, turning back to the pool and leaning over it glumly. "I needed to figure out where that boy was. I have to find him before it's too late. Surely you saw that they were gong to hurt him, at least."

"I fear that it already is too late," the hermit replied mournfully, gazing down at the now useless pool. "But I can tell you where they were, if that is what you wish."

ǁ

It all happened so quickly, and Lucy was cold and exhausted, but she forced herself to at least try and pay attention to what was going on around her, despite the pain in her wrists. The bonds the witch's guard had applied to her hands, roughly yanking them behind her back, were digging into the skin and had even started bleeding.

Peter had always been a hothead. He had been able to rein in his temper in the past few years, as it was necessary to have patience as a High King of Narnia. But today, Lucy knew all of those years of practice were lost.

Her brother's fury was visible on his face, even as he maintained his increasingly heated words with the Witch. But she could hardly concentrate on what they were saying. Biting her lip, Lucy glanced at the Just King.

"Well?" The Witch demanded, leaning forward in her throne as if she were a bird about to leap on her prey. "I will not wait forever, Son of Adam."

Edmund, across the room, held almost all of Lucy's attention at this point. He was swaying on his feet, and she was sure that at any moment now he would keel over. Oh, couldn't they hurry up so her brother could at least be cared for?

If only she were the only one who needed to do these negotiations. She had already made her choice. It was the most logical, if selfless, decision Lucy had ever made, and she wished Peter would just honor her idea.

"You cannot ask me to choose between my siblings," Peter said resolutely, his hands clenched into fists, and Lucy turned her attention back to him, hoping to catch his eyes and motion towards her brother.

Oh, what had the Witch done to him?

The White Witch smiled. It was a smile that Lucy had grown to hate just over the length of this meeting, and she was not generally a hateful person.

"But I have promised to leave if you do. Not even for Narnia can you do this? I think your Narnians would find that rather selfish. After all, Aslan himself," she flinched even as she said the name, but forced herself to continue without pausing, "was willing to pay a price for Narnia. Why shouldn't you do the same?"

Lucy caught Peter's eye and gestured to Edmund, hoping that the message was clear. She wanted him to choose to allow Edmund to live and let her die, as she herself had already offered. She had made her peace with the idea, if it meant knowing the Witch would be defeated and Edmund would live. But Peter couldn't listen to her. Couldn't choose to let one of his siblings die rather than the other.

They were at a stalemate. Something needed to happen, and soon, before the Witch's patience ran out and she simply decided to kill them all.

Peter closed his eyes, coming to a decision that Lucy was sure she would not approve of just by the guilty way he refused to make eye contact with her. "Then take me instead. Aslan offered himself, not innocents in his place."

"No!" Edmund shouted weakly from his place to one side of the Witch's throne, and the ogres holding him snarled in response, hitting him on the side of the head. Perhaps her brother was more aware of what was going on than Lucy had thought.

She struggled against her own captors, furious that anyone would harm her brother in such a way. Aslan!

The Witch raised a brow. "I would hardly call either of them innocent." She showed sharp, glistening white teeth. "But you would offer yourself in their place?" she sounded slightly breathless at the possibility.

"Allow my siblings to go free, and kill me instead of them. Then you will leave here and never return, as you promised."

No, Peter! You fool! Lucy wanted to shout at him, but the words caught in her throat. What was her brother thinking? That would be letting the Witch win. He couldn't do that. She had already offered herself up. That was all right, and she did not regret it even when she saw the betrayal on Peter's face, no doubt mirroring her own now. She had done it for Edmund, and he had needed her. But if Peter sacrificed himself, all would be lost. The White Witch would simply kill him and then have no one standing in her way.

Didn't he see that?

Who did he think would lead Narnia if he was dead? Edmund?

She glanced at Edmund again. His brother didn't seem to grasp what was going on after his latest outburst. He was watching the proceedings with vacant, wide eyes, flailing against the ogres holding him still but nowhere near strong enough to fight them.

The thought was cruel and she instantly regretted it upon looking at her brother, but it was true nonetheless. Edmund was in no shape to be doing anything right now.

Susan? She would be heartbroken over the death of her brother. Lucy? But she was just a girl; what would she do? They needed Peter.

"So brave," the Witch smirked, licking her lips in anticipation. "I will admit, the offer is tempting."

Lucy waited with bated breath. Peter, of all the thoughtless...her mind soon turned to more worthy pursuits.

Aslan, where are you? Please, come soon. Please, save us from her as you did before. One of us is going to die if you don't do something!

It turned out that all of her worrying was unfounded. In the end, it didn't matter which sibling Peter chose, whether it was himself or Lucy.

General Oreius and King Lune, unknowingly, made the decision for him.

It came in the shape of a Narnian spear, landing a breadth away from the White Witch's ear even as she sat upon her throne and wobbling for a full minute before finally going still, buried deep in her icy throne. Lucy took some satisfaction in the fact that, without magic, her throne would never be the same again, shattered by the head.

Perhaps it was a sign from Aslan. Lucy certainly hoped so.

The room soon descended into madness.

The Witch shrieked, instantly on her feet, her hand going immediately for that wand. Her faithful started forward, forming a semi-circle around her, as if they did not want to get too close lest they suffer her wrath. She began shouting something Lucy didn't pay attention too, though she should have. "Traitors! Liars! You see? The 'High King' of Narnia resorts to trickery and deceit to defeat me!"

Peter, however, looked just as shocked as the White Witch by this new development.

Lucy watched her for a moment in wide-eyed trepidation, before turning her gaze on their rescuer, unbelieving. Had Aslan finally heard her prayers after all?

What was that? She was beginning to sound like Susan. Of course Aslan would come to their rescue. He always had in the past.

Lucy found a moment to realize she was rather amazed she had managed to get so distracted what with the chaos reigning about her before turning her gaze towards the front of the throne room, where the spear had originated from.

General Oreius stood tall at the other end of the throne room, dressed in full battle armor, his arm still raised from throwing the weapon. A group of two dozen Narnian warriors or so crowded around him, all with looks of murder in their eyes and weapons in their hands.

Peter blanched, taking a step back, towards them. "Oreius, I told you, under no conditions, were you to follow me in here." He did not sound angry, only weary, as if he knew the end was near.

Everything that happened after that was a bit of a blur for the Valiant Queen. One moment, everyone was just standing there, facing off, and the next the Witch was shouting again.

"What is the meaning of this? You cannot possibly expect to fight me here, in my own home, and win, Son of Adam. Not when my army is so much more extensive than yours, even here."

The guards holding Lucy tightened their grip on her arms and she flinched in pain, glancing towards Edmund, not for the last time.

"My liege, forgive me," Oreius stated loudly, the words reverberating off the icy walls of the castle, but he and his soldiers made no move to depart. "I could not leave you in here to face the Witch alone, not after learning-"

"You think it too dangerous, leaving your High King in here to negotiate with me?" the White Witch interrupted. "You are right, for I am no longer in the mood for making deals." She turned to her general, a centaur. "Kill them."

Oreius glanced from the Witch to the centaur and his eyes widened in deep hurt at the betrayal of one of his own. He had little time to meditate on the matter, however, for the Witch's new general was quick. He motioned twice to the Witch's Fell army, filling the room, and then they moved into an attack position.

Peter barely had time to bring up his sword before he and his wolf protectors were completely surrounded by the Fell creatures. Oreius and his troop quickly moved inwards, but were blocked off by the rest of the Fell.

Peter and his wolves fought valiantly against the Fell, as did Oreius and his troop, and soon they had fought through the line of Fell creatures separating them. Peter and Oreius stood with their backs to each other, and renewed the fighting.

"I thought I told you to stay in the camp," Peter snapped, sounding annoyed now, but not genuinely, as his sword clashed against the blade of an ax. The minotaur he was facing grunted, spinning around and attempting to embed said ax into Peter's forehead.

Oreius shoved away his opponent before turning and slamming his sword deeply into the minotaur's back, sword buried to the hilt as Peter jumped out of the way and immediately was accosted by a rogue dwarf.

They fought with the ease of two who had been born with a sword in hand, who had fought side by side for years, but Peter could not deny that he felt useless without Edmund fighting beside him.

"I couldn't let you make a foolish mistake, majesty," Oreius panted out, sword clanging loudly against the metal breastplate of another minotaur. "King Lune...has arrived."

Peter was momentarily shocked out of his present situation. Bringing his blade up at the last moment, he blocked the attempt of the enemy. He couldn't help but notice that they were moving closer and closer to the Witch's throne, to Edmund.

The White Witch scowled, bringing forth her wand and shoving it into the throat of the nearest Narnian soldier.

The creature, a fawn, cried out as blood spurted from his neck, staining the Witch's gown, and then abruptly went still, body turned to stone. The Witch grinned and turned on her next victim, a malicious look in her eyes. The badger didn't even have time to scream before it too, was just another stone statue adorning her palace.

She could still win this, the Witch thought as she turned on her next prey.

Meanwhile, three of Peter's wolves rushed towards the throne in an attempt to protect Queen Lucy, while another three rushed for Edmund. The ogres guarding Edmund snarled at the wolves, but the wolves were not to be intimidated from protecting their king. They scampered forward, biting at the heels of the ogres, and, when this failed to down the fell creatures, resorted to rather more...bloodthirsty methods, reminiscent of their times in the wild before swearing themselves to the service of the High King.

The first ogre fell to the ground as one of the wolves buried her teeth into the back of his thigh, then proceeded to rip the skin from his flesh. The ogre screeched, throwing his pickaxe at the wolf, but the wolf disappeared at the last moment and the weapon was buried in the ice as the ogre fell forward. A second wolf made quick work of him as the others moved in on Edmund's other guard.

Edmund, for his part, simply looked confused. One of the ogres shoved him off to the side and he hit the icy floor with a loud thump, banging his shoulder against the hard surface. He didn't cry out, but simply lay there, disoriented.

When the wolves were finished with the second ogre, they turned to King Edmund in concern, though this was rather hidden behind the blood dripping from their mouths and claws. Edmund let out a whimper and cringed, turning his head away from them. All he could see were three wolves covered in blood, looming over him.

"My king," one of the wolves intoned, ignoring the fact that Edmund didn't turn around again, "Can you walk?"

Edmund stubbornly refused to answer, biting down hard on his lip.

The wolf sighed, nudging Edmund with his muzzle. He doubted he would have been able to get the young king to look up again if it were not for the centaur who suddenly appeared behind them, one of Oreius' lieutenants.

The centaur bent down next to Edmund, offering his hand. "My king, we must get you out of here. This is no place for someone with your wounds."

Edmund hesitated, wide brown eyes regarding the centaur suspiciously before the centaur grabbed his hand rather forcefully, apparently tired of waiting, and easily tossed him onto his back. Edmund cried out, but then clung to the centaur's long mane, closing his eyes.

Edmund's wolves surrounded the centaur, intent on guarding their King as they led him from the castle.

Lucy's wolves did not fare as well.

Lucy managed to take advantage of the chaos, slamming her body into her guard and knocking him off his feet. He just managed to regain his footing and keep from tripping, but not before Lucy, a bit flustered at actually being able to topple the beast, grabbed the dagger hidden inside his left boot.

She held it up triumphantly as her rescuers, three wolves, converged on her guards. The wolves growled and her guards unsheathed their weapons.

However, the guards were no match for the fierce protectors of the High King and his siblings, and in a moment, lay dead on the ice.

Lucy balked at the sight, and quickly lifted a hand to her mouth. She had thought that, in all the battles she had witnessed, she had grown used to such violence, but the sight of these creatures, enemies though they were, lying bled out on the ground...

"My lady, we must get you out of here," one of the wolves said. "Come with us."

The White Witch's eyes widened as Lucy's wolves overtook her guards and glanced back at where her other prisoner, the little traitor, should have been. He was gone, leaving two dead ogres in his path.

"No!" The White Witch screamed, and, ignoring the raging battle all around her, sprinted in the direction of the one monarch she still held prisoner. Lucy swallowed nervously and her wolves formed a circle of protection around her.

The wolves growled as the Witch approached, but the Witch was not about to lose all of her carefully laid plans over a few wolves. Raising her wand, she stabbed one through the heart even as it threw itself at her, and then tossed the statue to the side, so that it crashed to the ground and shattered.

Lucy screamed.

The other two wolves crowded around her, intent on guarding their queen even to the death, it seemed. The Witch could not fathom why she had once trusted these creatures.

She didn't take much time to meditate on it, however, instead plunging her wand into the next wolf's strong hide. This time, the creature did not turn to stone, but simply fell to the ground, whimpering. When the Witch yanked the wand out once more, the creature was dead.

"Fool," she hissed at the wolf's carcass, "every traitor belongs to me. I'd have thought you would know that."

The last wolf glanced up at Lucy with sad eyes, and then shouted, "My lady, you must run!"

Lucy stood pressed against the wall, unable to move, terrified eyes locked on the Witch.

Jadis ignored her, knowing the girl would not be able to make an escape now, on her own.

The wolf, unfortunately, chose that moment to attack. She was a beautiful creature, and, if the Witch was not mistaken, she recognized the she-wolf as one of her own, from before. She must have turned around and sworn allegiance to these children.

That knowledge sent a spike of fury through the Witch, and she prepared her next courtyard decoration.

As she killed off Lucy's last protector, the remaining survivors of the Narnian group sped for the gates with all urgency, completely unaware of their missing queen.

Oreius did not have the time to turn around and count their numbers, though he knew that many had died in this foolish attempt to rescue the kings and queen. He would never have attempted something like ten years ago. He did it only because he could think of no other way. His first priority was to get to safety, and then plan the battle that was surely to come of this. Hopefully, King Lune's army would arrive as fast as the eagle who had sent ahead his message.

Peter rode atop Oreius' back, Rhindon in hand, slicing at every creature who got in their way, even as they reached the gates. Despite the confidence in his movements, Oreius could feel him shaking.

Edmund sat on the back of another centaur, clinging to him for dear life with a rather confused, far away expression on his face. The centaur kept glancing back at his young charge, as if he were so light that the centaur needed to make sure he was still carrying the Just King.

A dozen or so wolves ran in a pack around them, snarling and barking. The fawns ran ahead on nimble feet, making sure the gates were open so that they could make their escape.

They made it through the gates, despite the impossible odds, their Narnian troop hit the outside world with a clattering of hooves and weaponry. But they did not stop then.

Not until the gates slammed shut behind them, and they were not far from the battle raging below.

In the absence of the High King, Oreius had taken it upon himself to declare open war against the Witch's armies. It would happen eventually anyway, of that he was certain, and he was willing to take the blame for the outcome if it meant his rulers were safe and alive.

They would not be able to make it back to the camp without some difficulty. There were two armies between them and a tent where Edmund's injuries could be looked over and Peter could make some decisions on the battle plans.

It was Peter's cry of pain, not of physical pain, for Peter rarely made a sound over those, but a pain in the soul that Oreius had never heard from his High King before, but knew well enough, that jolted him from these morbid thoughts. He spun around, expecting Edmund to have fallen from the back of his centaur for the last time.

Edmund was in more or less the same condition he had been in before. It was not that over which Peter screamed, eyes glued to the Witch's castle, an expression of absolute horror filling his features.

Lucy was not with them.


	15. To Kill a King

"Lucy!" Peter screamed his sister's name even as the gates to the Witch's castle slammed ominously shut and the remnants of Oreius' troop and Peter's guards just managed to keep from being shut up with them. Barely thinking about what he was doing, Peter jumped down from the centaur's back and ran back towards the gates, ignoring the calls of his soldiers that it was suicide. He was not going to just leave Lucy to the Witch's mercy.

He did not notice the snowflakes falling through the air, littering his golden hair and chainmail. It was falling at a frightening intensity, the ground already more than a foot deep with the stuff. But Peter's mind was only on one thing.

They had left Lucy behind, to face the wrath of the White Witch alone. How could he have allowed this to happen? This was all his fault. Oh, he had been such a fool!

"Your Majesty!" Oreius shouted from behind him as Peter unsheathed his sword, nearing the gates they had just escaped from.

He wasn't thinking about what he was doing; all he knew was that he had to get Lucy back. Now.

The centaur general raced after him, catching up with the High King quickly and blocking his way.

Peter tried to go around him, but Oreius shoved him back.

"Get out of my way!" Peter shouted desperately, swaying in horror at the images even now plaguing him, images of the Witch turning Lucy to stone or...

Oreius reached out a hand and placed it on Peter's shoulder. "Your Majesty, think about what you're doing. Going back in there will not save the Queen. We have help now; more men than the Witch. She will be defeated, and Lucy is a brave girl. We need only wait and she will be reunited with us."

"And meanwhile that Witch could have already slit her throat!" Peter shouted at him. Didn't he understand? This was the deal the Witch had wanted him to make with her. It all happened as Jadis had wanted anyways, regardless of all his intentions. How had he not noticed that she wasn't with them? "I will not leave her!"

Oreius shook his head. "Your Majesty-"

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by the sound of the castle's wretched gates swinging wide.

Eyes widening in horror, the High King took an involuntary step back as the sheer mass of the rest of the Witch's army, previously hidden within the walls of her castle, suddenly descended upon them. Her army below, encamped on the battlefield, was small compared to this, but at the sight of the rest, it slowly began the long march between camp and the castle. The small group of rescuers was caught somewhere in the middle, nearly a dozen against perhaps a few thousand strong on each side.

Oreius had been wrong about them having more soldiers than the Witch. Very wrong.

"Your Majesty, we need to leave. Now."

He glanced at his younger brother, barely lucid behind them. Edmund was clutching tightly to his rescuer, eyes shut and forehead pressed into the centaur's mane. And Peter promised himself then that he would not be responsible for another sibling's death, which would surely occur if they lingered here a moment longer.

But that did not mean he was going to leave Lucy behind.

He could only pray to Aslan that Lucy would be safe until he could reach her.

The headstrong impulsiveness of High King Peter reared itself then, and he pulled his armor clad arm out of Oreius's grip, starting forward.

"General, make sure my brother makes it safely back to the camp," Peter ordered suddenly, making a decision that he knew Oreius would not like as his hand tightened around Rhindon, and Oreius turned to him with a wide-eyed expression of disbelief, though he knew he should not have been so surprised by anything his king did at this point.

"Your Majesty-" Oreius bit his lip. He knew the headstrong tendencies of his King, as well as the young man's fierce loyalty to his siblings. Despite all odds, he would go to any length to protect them. Knowing that arguing would be useless, he attempted nonetheless. However, he would not lose his High King in such a foolish attempt.

"That's an order, General. Get the Just King to safety." His boots were sinking into the rapidly increasing snow and slowly dampening. They had not been made for this sort of weather, being almost entirely leather, and would soon be ruined.

Oreius glared at him, not budging even as the Witch's army came closer, now surrounding them on all sides. There was an army of giants between them and the rest of the loyal Narnians. The situation looked hopeless, and they both knew that it was.

"We can do nothing for her now but pray to Aslan," Oreius said softly, hoping the words would be heard this time as he placed a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Come, before all of this was for nothing."

Peter swallowed hard, a young, vulnerable expression filling his features as his gaze returned to the Witch's castle. He felt as if he were being torn in two directions at the same time. Finally, in a soft voice unbefitting of the Magnificent King, he whispered, "I won't abandon her."

There was a significant silence then, Peter staring off at Jadis's castle.

"I swear to you, my King, that Narnia will not abandon her, and Aslan will protect her. But if we continue to linger here, you and your brother will be lost, as well."

The Witch's forces were getting closer, drawing in on all sides now, the Narnian camp beyond the battlefield and too far away.

And Peter nodded, feeling betrayal wash through him as he turned his back on the Witch's castle and climbed onto Oreius's flank without another word, ignoring the stinging behind his eyes. Still, all might have been lost had King Lune not decided to step in at that very moment. Quite literally.

The flying colors of Archenland burst through the dense lines of the Witch's army from behind, blocking them from the small group and allowing Peter and the rest just enough time to escape, besides blocking them even further from the Witch's castle and ruining Peter's plans of slipping back in for good. The Archenland army served as a barrier between the Narnian Kings, their soldiers, and the rest of the Witch's approaching army. That, above all else, convinced Peter that perhaps they had a chance, that Lucy had a chance.

If the Witch was drawn out into battle, she would have no time to kill Lucy, and as long as the Witch was defeated in this battle, his sister would be safe. It was a lot of risks to take, many what ifs, but Peter would have to trust Aslan until he could reach his sister, as even he knew, though he could not accept it, that he did not have a chance of reaching Lucy now. Indeed, he had no other choice but to go back towards the Narnian camp.

The only trouble now was getting back to their camp without being killed by the third of the Witch's army flanking their other side. The dozen or so of them against a thousand strong would not hold for long.

Peter took a deep breath, lifting his sword into the air once more. Glancing worriedly at his brother before turning to the rapidly approaching battle, Peter shouted, "For Narnia and Queen Lucy!"

The dozen or so Narnians that had moved to surround him in a large circle of protection cheered this before starting forward in a vain attempt to reach the Narnian camp. Archenland and Susan were not far behind, though Peter had yet to see his sister. Oreius, as always when it could be helped, marched proudly at his side. The rest of the Narnians, still sitting in their camp and silently wondering what exactly was going on, leapt to their feet at the sight of their two kings being chased out of the Witch's castle.

The battle that ensued then between the many armies of the Witch and the armies of Narnia and Archenland was fierce, gruesome, and oddly brief.

For it was now obvious that, with the strength of Archenland at their back, the Narnians were no longer outnumbered so heavily by the enemy, nor were they disheartened at the sight of King Edmund finally bring rescued. The absence of Queen Lucy was not yet noticed.

The Narnians quickly abandoned their camp and joined in the heat of battle, moving quickly towards their kings.

Rhindon drove into the neck of the closest giant, blood spurting onto Peter's armor as the creature fell to the ground, mace sliding from its abnormally large fingers and slamming into the snow, burying itself deep. As always when fighting the giants of the North, Peter felt a small wave of guilt before dismissing it in lieu of the approaching hag.

The giants of Ettinsmoor were a violent people, though unlike their brothers to the North, in Harfang, they were incredibly dimwitted and seemed to only understand that a rock was good for throwing at the enemy, especially if that enemy was smaller than them. It had made for many problems in this past, but Peter had thought Narnia and these giants had reached a somewhat tentative peace. Yet they had an acute terror of the White Witch that Peter could never understand, and he supposed this was a deciding factor in their presence today.

He had not realized they had come with the giants of Harfang, and the news made him swallow nervously.

The giants of Harfang, however, were a different matter entirely. Living in their castle, rather than in the rock caves their brothers occupied, and devising plots to destroy the Narnian patrols that often crossed into their borders, they presented an even more terrifying problem than the giants of Ettinsmoor. They were a cunning people, more so then their brothers to the south at any rate, and hated humans, unless they were cooked in meat pies. Peter had no problem fighting them.

Nor did he have any problem slicing at the hag in front of him, either. She ducked out of the way easily, wicked smile reminding Peter of the one he had killed in the dungeons of Cair.

Behind him, he could hear Oreius engaged in his own fierce battle with a wayward minotaur. He could not see Edmund from here, and could only hope he was being kept out of the fray, but knew with a sinking feeling that Edmund would have to go directly through the ensuing battle before he could reach safety.

The hag lunged at Peter then, holding a staff that looked strangely similar to the Witch's wand, though he knew it could not have been the same; he doubted the Witch would be parted from the thing, now she had it. Though, with that thought, he could not help but wonder what this was capable of, if it was capable of anything at all.

Rhindon clanged against the staff, and a loud, strange buzz sang through the air. The hag and Peter both flew back upon impact, Peter landing in the cold, wet snow a few feet away while the hag slammed into the back of a minotaur.

The minotaur ignored her, intent on the Narnian fawn he fought, and she clawed back to her feet, reaching around blindly for her weapon before lifting her head and gawking she realized exactly where it was; between her and the High King.

Peter did not waste a moment, and the moment in which she did cost the hag dearly. He threw himself forward into the snow, hand clenching round the staff before he threw it out if reach to both of them and grabbed his seord, much preferring a weapon he could trust. Without her weapon and suddenly rendered helpless, the hag lifted her hands as if in surrender. Peter paused for only a moment before casting aside her staff and raising his sword to do her in.

At the last moment, the hag yanked a dagger from within the folds of her ragged clothing and threw it at the High King.

Behind him, he could hear a shout that sounded remarkably like Susan, someone screaming his name, and he dropped to his knees, rolling out of the way at the last moment before bringing up his sword and plunging it into the hag's side. She let out an inhuman scream and clutched her side as Peter twisted the weapon savagely before yanking it out and watching her fall forward, blood pouring from the open wound, staining her rags and the freshly fallen snow.

He took a deep breath before turning to his next enemy.

Meanwhile, King Lune had been downed from his horse by the stray arrow of a dark dwarf, and found himself surrounded by his men. He raised a knife in response and tossed it into the gut of the nearest blackbird as it suddenly flew past his head, blocking his view of the dwarf archer. The bird hit the ground with a loud impact, black feathers weaving through the air as blood squirted across the trampled snow that became the creature's grave.

The next knife reached the black dwarf, and the creature fell forward, sliding down the small hill he had claimed and disappearing into the carnage below.

His army, along with the remnants of the army that had remained at Cair with Queen Susan, had reached the field of battle in the nick of time, the Archenland king realized. If they had arrived a moment later, High King Peter and his small troupe would have been lost forever.

Not far away, Susan had planted herself at a small knoll, in perfect view of the descending armies from the castle. A dozen or so of Narnia's best arches stood around her. One by one, she picked the Fell Creatures off with her arrows, silently damning the Witch to Tash for not only taking her siblings from Susan and returning to haunt them all, but forcing Susan to join in battle against her.

It was not something she found particular pleasure in, as her brothers sometimes did, though they had yet to admit it. She preferred negotiations and treaties; she had a way with diplomacy rivaled only in the sooth-saying words of the Tisroc, though it was known far and wide that her words could be believed.

War was not something she excelled at, for she hated the sight of spilled blood, but something she would participate in if necessary.

As it was, she saw no room for negotiation with the White Witch.

At the sight of Peter, fighting that dreadful hag, Susan started towards him, intent on helping her brother. She had yet to see Edmund or Lucy, and the implications of that terrified her to no end. But she had been distracted by a giant, tumbling towards her with axe in hand. One swift arrow did nothing to stop the giant's forward momentum, and, with a sigh, Susan continued shooting.

It took three well-placed arrows to fell the giants, and his slow descent to the ground blocked her view of Peter. When he was finally down, she could no longer see her brother. Fear swept through her, but Queen Susan did not have the time to contemplate it as her fellow archers looked to her for instructions.

"Aim for the head and underarms," Susan instructed in a shout that she wasn't entirely sure was heard over the din of battle. She lifted her bow once more, closing one eye as she trained her arrows down on the enemy. "That is where they are weakest and unprotected."

Then she caught sight of Peter once more, and breathed a sigh of relief that she could still count him among the living.

When the hag threw her knife at Peter, Susan cried out in horror, enough of a warning that Peter just barely ducked out of the way in time to keep from being stabbed. Susan lost sight of him then once more, behind the moving bodies in the battle, and focused her attention on her shooting with the fervent hope that they would soon be reunited.

The High King, meanwhile, was locked in a fierce fight with a centaur, of all creatures. What a centaur was doing fighting for the Witch, he had no idea. Had the reign of Peter and his siblings really been so bad that centaurs, considered the wisest of all creatures, would turn to the Witch? Peter found himself wishing, and not for the first time, that the Narnians had come to their monarchs earlier and stated their complaints before bringing the White Witch back from the dead.

The centaur raised his curved blade, very Calormene in nature, and their weapons clashed together, the sound ringing out very differently from when Peter's blade had hit the hag's staff.

The curved blade swung around Rhindon, nearly knocking the sword from Peter's hands, but he managed to pull it back at the last moment and get a better grip before the centaur attacked once more.

Behind him, Peter could hear the sounds of battle intensifying, but he focused only on that centaur's weapon. They circled each other slowly, Peter searching for any weaknesses he could exploit before rushing forward and stabbing at the other.

The centaur blocked him with a particularly effective maneuver that sent Peter gasping out of the way.

Someone moved in front of the High King and his vision of that centaur was lost quickly. It did not take him very long to realize that the horse who had moved in front of him was not the only one to do so in the effort of shielding their king, and Peter soon found himself surrounded by a half dozen or so Narnians, intent on guiding their king towards the safety of the camp, as the Witch had yet to leave her castle and evidently had something planned. Jadis was never one to stay hidden away while a battle raged on outside her door, and Peter knew with a sinking feeling what that meant; this was not the real battle, not to her.

But he had not the time to figure out what exactly that meant for them before another Fell Creature snuck up behind him, through the new defenses, and stole his attention.

Peter muttered under his breath; he hated to be cut off from the battle while his own were expected to fight and die, just because he was the King.

Apparently his rescuers had noticed the wound that Peter had yet to notice himself; the hag had delivered a numbing cut to his ribs that had sliced nearly to the bone, and he was loosing blood through his armor at quite an alarming rate. Peter was too intent on the fight to realize the injury was even present. A dozen other cuts and scrapes also lined his body, but none quite so serious as that one.

His guard keeping position in a circle around him, they made their way forward until Peter suddenly realized something the heat of battle had caused him to forget. Turning to the nearest friendly face, he shouted, "No, find my brother! Make sure he gets to safety first."

The horse in front of him turned, rear legs slamming into a wolf so hard that the wolf crashed to the ground and lay still. "King Edmund is safe, my liege."

Those six simple words caused a wave of relief to wash over Peter, and he threw himself into his fighting- another wolf had slipped past his defenses- with renewed fervor. The creature bit at him, teeth grazing the exposed skin at Peter's wrist, before he twirled Rhindon around and slammed it fully into the wolf's chest.

The creature let out a small whimper before collapsing to the ground, dead. An image of Maugrim, who had died in a similar manner, flashed before Peter's mind and he gasped, pulling back.

High King Peter was not without his own nightmares.

Suddenly, one of his lieutenants was at the King's side, and it took Peter a moment to realize that they had finally reached the safety of the Narnian camp. He glanced around at the soldiers that had rescued them from the Fell Army. Half were gone already. Oreius was nowhere to be seen.

King Lune's army was right behind them, forming a wall between the Narnians and the enemy now, but Peter knew it would not last for long. The battle for Narnia had begun, and his people would need to see him at the forefront, regardless of his own injuries.

But there was something he needed to do first, though he had only a few minutes to do so. Silently, Peter followed his small entourage into the near-empty camp. The only occupants still present, who had not run off into the battle, were the healers.

As if his thoughts had summoned them, said healers appeared in front of him, looks of concern etching their otherwise calm features at the sight of their injured High King. Almost immediately, a cheetah that Peter knew well accosted him, checking over his injuries before he could find his brother.

She let out a hiss once the armor was removed, as well as his shirt of chainmail, and the wound to his ribs was revealed. The broken skin revealed a deep wound, and she found herself snapping, "Just because you're magnificent doesn't mean you're invincible." The words caused a ripple of shock to run through the other healers, but Peter had grown quite used to her bluntness, over the years. The small amount of normalcy calmed him, a bit. "One of these days, you're going to collapse in the midst of a battle because you refuse to get help when it's needed."

Peter didn't bother to respond, gasping as her clawless paw poked at his exposed skin. Annoyed that she had stopped him from his mission of seeing to Edmund, Peter simply ground his teeth.

Of course, the healer realized with no small amount of irritation, the High King would not have allowed anyone to pull him from the heat of battle unless he was this badly wounded.

Peter glanced down at the injury in surprise, only just now beginning to register a dull throbbing from his side, when the healer rubbed some sort of poultice into it.

A dull ache filled his chest as he realized that Lucy would have known what it was.

No, he would not allow himself to think of Lucy now, not allow himself to be too distracted from the fight at hand lest he lose his resolve. He just had to believe that she would be all right until they came for her, despite the doubt that plagued his heart and the Witch's intentions.

As the cheetah set to work bandaging him, not exactly a thorough job as there wasn't time for that, the lieutenant, a grey eagle who served directly under Oreius, name of Starwing, stepped forward and gave his report. Once the wound was effectively wrapped up, someone placed a coat around his shoulders and Peter found himself clinging to it, reminding himself a bit of Edmund after a particularly bad nightmare. At that dismal thought, he could barely pay attention to the lieutenant's words.

"We received word from a messenger eagle that King Lune has arrived at Cair with an army at his disposal, my king. Oreius knew that, if we had a fighting chance, we must take it. Any negotiations with the Witch would ruin that chance, so he came after you." The eagle bowed his head to Peter.

Peter swallowed hard, and, though it was difficult after losing Lucy in that castle, responded, "No, of course. You were right to do so, for I fear I would have made a fatal mistake had I been there any longer." Indeed, he would have sold himself to the Witch for Narnia's sake. For his siblings' sake. And now Lucy was left behind to pay the price unless the Witch was defeated swiftly and his sister rescued.

But one sibling had been saved from the Witch's castle, and Peter's thoughts turned to his younger brother once more, searching the camp for him and remembering why he had consented to return to the camp in the first place. It did not take long to find Edmund, and when he did, the raging battle seemed to dissolve around them.

A few feet away, lying in the cold snow even as a few healers hovered around him and tried to haul him to his feet, Peter noticed Edmund for the first time. The younger king, whether it was from stubbornness or fear, refused to move from his place on the ground, and the healers eventually stopped trying to force him, instead kneeling down beside their king and hurriedly wrapping his injuries in silence. They knew there would soon be others in desperate need of their attention, once the wounded begun returning to the camp.

Peter somehow doubted any of those injuries would be as bad as the ones Edmund now suffered after so many weeks in the Witch's dungeons.

Peter really looked at his little brother for the first time since leaving the Witch's castle, huddled on the ground with one hand covering his eyes as if he were afraid to look around. The other was pressed tightly to his side, undoubtedly injured. He looked even more horrible out here in the broad daylight. His body was badly bruised, his skin almost completely purple and blue, and he wore no shoes to protect his feet from the snow. He was shivering badly, deathly pale, what little remained of his shredded and bloodied clothing slowly growing wet from being left in the snow.

The very fact that Edmund had not immediately jumped up, insisting he was fine despite life-threatening injuries, and jumped into battle before he could be stopped was a testament to how badly shaken he was by everything that had happened.

Peter had seen him escape the Tisroc's dungeons after days of captivity and fight readily, not convinced to stop until he collapsed into Peter's arms at the end of the day. Seeing Edmund like this, showing weakness in front of his soldiers, made Peter want to cry for him.

The Narnians saw the look in Peter's eyes and turned away, giving the High King some much-needed time alone with his brother before rejoining the fighting, as he knew he must do. Edmund had spent weeks in the Witch's dungeons, and it had obviously affected him much more than the first time. Peter was the only person in the world who could deal with Edmund while he was like this, except perhaps Susan, and it would need to be done quickly.

Peter took a deep breath, rising from the small bench where the cheetah had been bandaging him, and walking forward until he was standing directly in front of his little brother. The cheetah stepped away with remarkable grace.

From his position on the ground, if Edmund had been looking rather than covering his eyes, he would have only been able to see up to Peter's knees. The fact that he didn't try to look, even as the shadow of the High King fell in front of Edmund, made Peter even more concerned.

Kneeling down in the freezing snow next to his brother, ignoring the sensation of his dampening pants and placing a hand on his forehead, Peter gently pried away the hand covering the younger boy's eyes. Edmund's small, bony hand shook in Peter's gloved, larger one, and Peter rubbed at it, trying to force the circulation back into those numb fingers even as his eyes perused the rest of Edmund's body, taking in all of his injuries with a well-seasoned eye.

Startling out of whatever hell had distracted him, Edmund jerked away and turned his eyes-those haunted brown pools-upon Peter.

Peter cringed at that look, so open and broken, and couldn't bring himself to meet his brother's eyes. Glancing down, he noted the sudden, violent shivers running through Edmund's body, his entire body shaking like a leaf in the wind. One good push and he would topple over into the trampled snow.

Standing, Peter quickly stripped off his jacket and was about to drape it around the Just King's bare shoulders when he noticed the whip lashes running horizontal along Edmund's back, the blood dried, the skin around each lash red and sore. It had been overlooked before, as Peter had focused on only the injuries he could see, but this...

Peter swallowed thickly, settling the coat around Ed's shoulders and buttoning the top button only. Edmund flinched and attempted to pull away. Gently, Peter rubbed at Edmund's neck, in an attempt to let him know he wasn't going to hurt him.

He wasn't certain if Edmund was aware of what was going on around him, but he leaned into the touch, ever so slightly. Peter took that as an encouraging sign. A moment later, Edmund's fingers lifted up to the collar of the coat and ran along it, as if he were a blind man trying to decipher what it was.

"It's all right, Ed," Peter whispered nonsensically. Of course it wasn't all right, but he could think of no other words to say to reassure his brother. He wanted to gather Edmund into an embrace, but didn't think that would have been a good idea, given the way Edmund was now staring at him, as if he was expecting Peter to run him through at any moment.

"You're safe now. She'll never hurt you again. I promise."

They sounded so much like the words he often muttered to Edmund after a particularly bad nightmare, but where they had been reassuring and comforting then, the words only seemed hollow now.

After all, hadn't he promised back then, when those nightmares were bad, that Edmund would be safe? That Peter would never let the Witch hurt him again? They had been lies then. The Witch was back, she wasn't dead as Peter had promised nearly every night since her death. And with the Witch about to fight them, and very much alive, the words of comfort he even now uttered could very well become lies once again.

Tears formed in Peter's eyes, and he blinked rapidly before pulling Edmund into a tight embrace. His younger brother struggled for a moment, flailing and fighting against him, before settling silently into his arms and leaning his forehead against Peter's shoulder, eyes sliding shut.

His body started to shake with loud sobs, and then, in a broken voice, he whimpered, "Peter?" as if recognizing his brother for the first time. He lifted his head to stare at Peter's face, as if he had just awoken from a dream.

Peter smiled sadly, clutching Edmund tightly against his chest and running a hand through his messy hair, matted with grease and...blood. "I'm here, Ed. You're all right now, Ed. It's all right."

The empty words were better than the silence, better than listening to Edmund cry as he had been. Edmund leaned into him, closing his eyes once more and beginning to hiccup.

Peter would have been content to sit like that forever, to never let go of Edmund again, but then he heard Starwing clearing his throat and knew that the moment could not last, remembering the war going on around them.

"The Witch's army approaches, sire. Narnia needs to see you at the forefront of the battle. They need to see...hope, now more than ever."

At his words, Edmund clung to Peter's chain mail, determined not to let him go. Not again, please.

Gently, Peter pried off Edmund's fingers and slowly stood to his feet, hating himself for doing so. "Yes, of course."

Taking Edmund's bony hands, far too skinny, he brought the Just King to his feet as well. Edmund stumbled forward, his legs buckling beneath him, and Peter just barely kept him from falling again. Three healers immediately stepped forward in case Peter dropped the young king. Shaking, Edmund leaned against him and Peter frowned.

He was loath to leave his little brother in this state, but Peter knew what he had to do.

Turning to a healer, a badger, standing nearby, Peter ordered, "Stay with my brother, and keep him here. Bring three others to guard him. Make sure that he..." He couldn't say the words. It was too painful. His voice choked off before he had the chance.

Fortunately, the badger understood. "Of course, my liege."

Stepping forward, the badger attempted to lead Edmund back into the tent, where Peter would have to hope he would be protected until the end of the battle, whatever outcome it might have.

"No, Peter," Edmund begged, hands twisting in his chainmail with surprising strength even as the badger and several other healers tried to pull him away. "Don't leave me."

Sighing, Peter placed a finger under Edmund's chin and lifted it gingerly, making sure Edmund was looking at him so that he knew the younger boy was paying attention. "I'll be back soon, Ed, I promise."

"I can fight," Edmund pleaded, his eyes wide and shining, his tone abruptly changing to one with which Peter was much more familiar. "Please Peter, let me fight. I can do it."

And Peter saw in his determined eyes how much this meant to him. Edmund needed the chance to defeat the Witch, after everything she had done to him. He deserved it. But Edmund was in no shape to lift a sword. So Peter would just have to see to it for him.

It was not a chore he was going to regret performing for his brother.

"I'll come back soon, Ed, I promise. Get some sleep."

Edmund gave Peter a wounded look, but followed the gentle badger nonetheless, too tired to put much more of a fight over this.

Peter ordered two centaurs and a bear to keep watch over the tent, and then turned back to Starwing, with the awful feeling that he would never see Edmund again.

It was a foolish thought, he reprimanded himself as his war horse was brought forward. Edmund was about to be much safer than he.

 

Lucy swallowed hard, huddling in the corner with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Unconsciously, she shivered when the White Witch took a step near her. This gave the Witch pause, and she turned away from the Daughter of Eve quickly.

Lucy's hands had been bound together with a thick rope, and her wide eyes had not left the sight of the wolves who had given their lives in defense of their Queen since the escape of her brothers. Nevertheless, the Witch could never be too careful, and though the girl was only a few feet away and relatively harmless, she had placed a minotaur over the girl to guard her.

She was not taking any chances now. Although the girl was not the one she wanted dead, she would have to do with what she had, the Witch supposed, sighing at thought.

"How many have joined them now?" she demanded from the scout, hovering just below her throne. The spear had yet to be removed from the chair, and until then, she had no desire to sit back down.

The scout shifted on his feet, not daring to look up at her, as he knew the news would not be taken favorably. "King Lune of Archenland sent an army five thousand strong, my Queen," the creature reported nervously. "This is not a battle that can be won easily."

The Witch examined the spear sticking out of her throne. "I did not come back to the land of the living to be beaten during a petty battle with Sons of Adam," she snapped coldly, and in a moment, the scout had been reduced to a stone pillar standing at attention before her throne.

The Witch turned to the minotaur guarding Lucy, brandishing the wand like a whip. "Keep the girl here, and ensure that she is well guarded. If, for some unfathomable reason, the little boy king manages to take the castle," she eyed Lucy in boredom, "slit her throat."

Lucy shivered, glancing up from the wolves for the first time and meeting the Witch's eyes. "You won't win," she said softly, so soft the Witch barely heard her. "Aslan will save us."

The White Witch flinched at that name, and then rushed forward and smacked Lucy across the face for speaking it in her home. The loud crack was the only noise in the room at that moment, and everyone turned to see Lucy lift a hand to her stinging cheek. But for some reason, the girl seemed to derive courage from it, and sat up a little straighter, the shivers dissolving.

"Your faith in that Lion is misplaced, Daughter of Eve," the Witch responded icily. "If he hasn't come to save you yet, why do you insist that he shall at all?"

Lucy gulped, looking away. Then, "He will come in his own time."

The Witch rolled her eyes, deciding this girl was no longer worth her time. "He will not come at all." She spun away, her skirts flying through the air as she walked briskly towards the gates to her castle. "And Narnia will be mine once more."

The gates to the castle opened slowly, dramatically, and the Witch, smirking in triumph, went out to meet the enemy, the rest of her army at her back.

Lucy shook her head sadly, ignoring the bloodthirsty look the minotaur awarded her. Aslan would come, she had to have faith. Or her brothers would.

 

Susan burst into the royal tent, taking in the sight of the badger, holding a bowl of soup, and Edmund, lying wrapped up in the many blankets in Peter's hammock, clutching his side and refusing to take the spoon the badger offered him. The young king turned his face away, scrunching it up as if he were a picky child.

Behind her, Philip followed, mane flapping wildly in the wind and eyes filled with concern for his young friend. And guilt, that could not be denied. For he felt guilt that he had not been here earlier for the Just King, having stayed behind in Cair.

The moment Susan had learned where her youngest brother was, she did not hesitate to go after him, leaving the battle even as she knew it was not a wise idea to do so. Finding Philip had simply been a coincidence, and the two had braved their way into the nearly empty Narnian camp together.

She rushed forward, skirts flying through the air before she bent down next to Edmund and enveloped him in an embrace that nearly choked the air out of the wounded young king. Realizing this, Susan pulled back quickly, choosing instead to run a finger along Edmund's cheek, wiping away the tear track there.

The feel of him, safe in her arms once more and not dead as she had worried, though she would never admit to such a fear, allowed Susan to breathe easy for the first time since he had disappeared.

Edmund, for his part, seemed content to simply stare at her with those wide eyes, raven hair sticking up wildly in all directions as he attempted to sit up a bit in the hammock. Peter having earlier pulled him from his nearly catatonic shock, at least for the moment, he immediately recognized the young woman before him.

He reached out his left hand, shaking badly as it hung in the air, though whether that was from the cold or something else, she could not say, and she caught it tightly within her own, bringing it to her lips and kissing his white, scabbed knuckles desperately. His hand was so cold and clammy within her own, and she too began to match her brother's shaking.

The badger lit a fire in the middle of the tent to boil some of the herbs, but Susan doubted this would do away with the cold she felt creeping up her chest.

"Oh, Edmund," she whispered softly. "I never thought...I thought you..." she couldn't finish the thought, turning instead to the badger, leaning over his poultice, even as she clutched to Edmund's hand, unwilling to let go of him. "Will he be all right?"

The badger smiled sadly. "If we can get some food into him, my lady. He hasn't eaten in...a very long time, that I can see. And we need to change those bandages, quickly."

Susan nodded, taking the bowl of soup that the badger had set aside in failure and holding it out to Edmund. Getting him to eat was not something that the badger would be able to do, while her brother was in this state, but was certainly something that Susan excelled at. Edmund glanced at it, turning his face away and grimacing with a stubbornness that she had missed terribly in the last few weeks, but that she did not miss now.

"Edmund," she snapped in exasperation, taking in his tiny frame and the way his bones seemed to stick out everywhere. She forced herself not to focus on the bruises and cuts lining his body, as well as how badly the more serious wounds had already bled through hastily applied bandages. "You need to eat."

Edmund shook his head stubbornly. "Can't," he insisted, but Susan would have none of that. Picking the spoon back up with renewed vigor, she brought a spoonful of broth to his lips. Despite her efforts, he kept his lips stubbornly closed.

"Please," she pleaded, sounding heartbroken. Edmund glanced at her, hesitating, before once more shaking his head and turning away, the idea of food absolutely revolting to him after going so long without.

"Edmund," Philip snapped, making his presence known in the tent. Edmund glanced up at the horse in surprise, not having realized he was there, before letting out a long suffering sigh and reluctantly opening his mouth. Susan smiled, too worried about him to be bothered by the fact that he would listen to Philip and not her, watching intently as the soup poured between his teeth and into his mouth.

Edmund swallowed, almost as an afterthought, and seemed to consider the broth for a moment. Once satisfied that it was not going to reappear, he opened his mouth again, eager for more. Susan was quick to comply, having already brought the next spoonful to his lips by the time he finished the first. The battle being waged just outside this tent no longer held the forefront in her mind, and she focused solely on Edmund.

With someone else to feed the boy, the badger pulled off his bandages and started cleaning the nearly festering wounds beneath before applying the poultice. It was obvious to him that the Just King had been whipped, as well as beaten with other instruments, and cut with a knife, not to mention being nearly starved. Despite the calm demeanour he was upholding before the Queen, he was worried that King Edmund would not survive the night, but he worked diligently all the same, stepping around the Gentle Queen and being careful not to upset the young man.

The next spoonful of thin soup appeared to be too much for Edmund, and he spit it back up, half of the stuff landing in the bowl and half splattering onto the dress Susan wore. She noticed in dismay that the soup was not the only thing to come back up; blood and bile quickly joined it, and Edmund pushed the spoon and bowl away, what little that had been regained of his appetite now lost.

Edmund started breathing harder, nearly hyperventilating, and Susan reached out a hand to his in order to reassure him. Setting the bowl of soup onto the cold ground, she whispered, "It's all right, Ed. You can eat later."

Edmund regarded her sleepily, the day's events beginning to take their toll on him. He vaguely registered that Susan continued talking, speaking about all the nice things they would do once he was better, once they'd returned to Cair and this whole mess was over, and then his eyes slipped shut and he was asleep, Susan's hand still tightly enclosed around his own.

Susan stayed with him while he slept, Philip keeping vigil at the entrance to the tent while the badger rewrapped Edmund's wounds, still not entirely satisfied. But he knew that Edmund would not be able to get the care he needed until he was returned to Cair Paravel.

"Tell me the truth now," Susan demanded of the badger once she was certain Edmund was asleep. "Is he going to be all right?"

The Pevensie siblings has been through plenty of bleak situations, many of them involving Edmund being terribly hurt while his siblings were not, for some reason that was absolutely unfathomable to the Gentle Queen, but in almost all of those situations, Lucy's cordial could be found nearby. She'd earlier had the idea of sparing an eagle to fly Edmund back to Cair, but what good would it do?

There was no one there now, every available body having joined them in the battle here, and the cordial was not there.

Now, with Lucy nowhere to be found and her cordial equally missing, Susan feared for her brother's life as she had never quite done before.

What had Lucy been thinking, going off on her own like she had? Now, she too, was likely captured by the Witch, though Susan still did not know for certain on that count, and the horn and cordial, in that case, lost forever.

The badger swallowed nervously, not turning to meet the Gentle Queen's eyes as he answered truthfully, "I don't know."

Before Susan had the chance to respond, there was a loud scream from outside the tent, and her hand instinctively reached for the bow strapped around her shoulder. Glancing up at Philip, she saw the wary expression on his face before he crept forward to investigate.

Susan stood, slipping an arrow into the notch despite the close proximity of the tent and glancing once more at Edmund to make sure he was all right. If some of the Fell Creatures had managed to slip into the Narnian camp, then she would have done well to continue worrying about the battle outside.

There was a noise like a grunt and then the clanging of steel outside the tent, and this time Susan knew that there were enemies present. Then there was nothing but deadly silence.

Philip pushed back the flaps to the tent and stuck his nose outside, glancing around quickly before turning back to Susan with wide eyes. "Protect your brother, my lady," he whispered softly, and before she could ask him what he had seen, he was gone, his tail slapping against Edmund's blanketed feet in farewell.

Philip stepped outside the tent and met whomever was out there in silence, but after a moment Susan heard a loud, grating voice greet him. The voice sounded dwarfish.

"Step aside, horse, and you won't be harmed."

There was no response, and then a horrifying noise from Philip, somewhere between a whine and a braying sound, before a sickening crunch. Then, once again, Susan could hear only silence.

Motioning for the badger to guard her brother at all costs, Susan stepped forward, hand lowering down to her waistband. It was where she kept the dagger Edmund had given her as a birthday present last year. Her fingers closed around the bone hilt and she held her breath. She forced herself not to think about what had become of Edmund's best Narnian friend, instead focusing on her even breathing.

Philip was a strong warrior, and would die to protect Edmund. The fact that he had been felled so easily brought terror to Susan's heart, a terror that she did not even want to contemplate.

The tent flaps flew aside then, admitting a red dwarf, which Susan quickly dispatched with the knife, watching with morbid interest as it embedded itself into the dwarf's flabby neck, slowly going still. The dwarf collapsed to the ground, grunting loudly.

The next to enter the tent was a hag, stepping gingerly over the dwarf's body as if it were refuse on the ground. It was leering at Edmund, and Susan suddenly realized why they had come to this particular tent.

The White Witch was reclaiming her prize.

Susan shuddered at the sight of the hag, as she supposed she would shudder at the sight of all hags in the future, and hurriedly pulled out an arrow. Although the close corners of the tent hindered her, Susan was not known as the best archer in Narnia for nothing.

The hag soon joined the red dwarf on the floor, screeching as she fell. The sound rang in Susan's ears, making her flinch.

Whoever was still outside made a noise of disgust, and apparently decided to take matters into their own hands. The tent flaps opened wide, revealing more than a dozen Fell Creatures, and behind them-

A flash of light was all the warning Susan had before the innocent badger standing guard by Edmund's bed was turned to stone, his small face pinched into an expression of pain. His right paw still clutched to the bandages he'd been attempting to fix around Edmund, and the little pieces of cloth fluttered in the air.

Susan brought up her bow once more, aiming directly at the White Witch's throat. The thought of ending this evil woman's existence was all too tempting for the Gentle Queen, and her breath shook against the string of her bow.

"No!" Susan shouted at the Witch. "You cannot have him!"

Jadis stood tall, eying the arrow with some apprehension but with no real fear. She twirled her wand between lithe fingers, enjoying the look of true horror she saw on the face of the Daughter of Eve. Her malevolent beauty was perfectly framed by the snow bank just beyond the tent.

Getting past the battlefield had not been difficult, as everything in her path was turned to stone upon the sight of her. Normally, she would engage them in petty battle first, but she did not have the time. She had not encountered the boy king, though, which had been a bit of a disappointment.

The Witch had found amusement in toying with the little "high king" earlier, and would have loved to try again. She could see the doubt in his eyes, a doubt that had been nonexistent the first time he pointed a sword at her and just dared her to "try and take" his brother.

Now, there was only doubt, coloring those eyes a dark shade of blue. Doubt in the Lion that had yet to save them, doubt in his own lack of forces that had caused him to go to the Witch in the first place, and, most importantly, doubt in himself.

The White Witch fed off such feelings in others. But now was not the time for such things. She had come here, to the enemy camp, for one reason and one reason only: to kill the little traitor that had, for so long, eluded her.

Not so this time. She would not make the same mistake again.

The Witch regarded the Gentle Queen in silence. In all honesty, she wasn't quite sure what to do with the girl. She hadn't been expected here, of all places, standing by her weak brother rather than fighting in the battle.

Killing this one was not part of the Witch's plan, and wasn't necessary, now that she had Edmund within her grasp. The prophecy would be ended the moment the traitor died, no matter what happened to his other siblings, and she would not deprive herself of the opportunity to kill Edmund.

Still, the Witch could not help herself.

Smirking, the White Witch turned her destructive wand upon Susan and raised it, intent on putting an end to the brat's life. She felt the power within her weapon, aimed at Susan, and watched the girl with excitement. She had turned many to stone, but she had yet to do so with a Daughter of Eve.

The awkward silence that followed gave her pause, and she stared down at her wand in shock as the cruel device did nothing to the young queen.

Susan took the moment of confusion to duck out of the way, disappearing further into the tent and shooting three arrows in the Witch's direction, all of them, oddly, missing their target.

The Fell Creatures standing alongside the Witch, at a nod from their mistress, invaded the tent. The White Witch was still staring at her wand in shock, unable to comprehend why it had not worked on the young queen. The Witch uttered a few spells on the wand, hoping this would do the trick, before turning it upon one of her own.

The Fell Creature was quickly turned to stone, as the Gentle Queen should have been.

She did not have long to contemplate, however, as soon enough, against her warnings, the Fell Creatures had dispatched of the Gentle Queen. Jadis heard a grunt from the girl, and then silence.

She had her prize. It should not have bothered her as much as it did that Susan the Gentle's death would not be by her hand.

The White Witch bent her head stepping into the tent, rather tall for the crude bedchambers of a Son of Adam. She glanced down at the crumpled form of the Gentle Queen in disgust as she noted the awkward rise and fall of the younger woman's chest, despite the blood now running down her forehead and the concussion likely claiming her. So. Still alive then.

It mattered not, the Witch decided as she turned her attentions upon the Just King. She had what she came for.

He lay in the hammock, unconscious and oblivious to the small battle that had just gone on around him. The subtle rise and fall of his chest, much slower than his sister's, made the Witch worry. She knew exactly how he had been treated under her care.

She worried that he would not make it.

"Carry the little traitor," the Witch ordered, examining her defective wand once more, "We have very little time."


	16. Deep Magic From the Dawn of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The complete version of this story is on ff.net, for those of you who can't wait. To everyone else, thanks for sticking with me! More to come soon.

The White Witch's army was failing against the superior forces of Loyal Narnia and Archenland. She had not counted on Archenland coming to the little usurper king's aid, as they had never done so in the past that she could remember, (they had certainly never come to hers, not that she had ever needed them or thought that they would,) but it no longer mattered.

Despite appearances, things were finally turning in her favor. By morning, Narnia would most certainly be hers.

For, though her castle was no doubt lost to the little king, along with everything in it, it was irrelevant. She had what she wanted.

The White Witch glanced back at the bound and gagged Edmund, being dragged along by another faithful hag, her replacement after the last was killed by that little king, and a wolf. She knew that this same wolf had brought the last human boy to her, murdered so that she might live, and something about that was so...poetic, that she could not pass up the chance to use him again, for the same purposes.

And this time, she would not let the chance to kill the boy escape her again. This time, Edmund would die on the Stone Table like the traitor that he was. And she would make sure that he died this time.

It had been a mistake not to do so the last time, at the Battle of Beruna, or with any of the chances she had before then. If she had just killed him when she met him, in the Western Woods, all of this could have been avoided. The prophecy would ended and her reign would have lasted a thousand years. It had been her own pride, her wish to show Aslan and the Emperor over the Sea that she had been the one to raise the knife, against the Lion himself, that had led to her downfall.

This time, the Witch would make sure that nothing could help the little brat now. Smirking, she patted the pocket where she had placed the magic horn that the little Valiant Queen had brought with her. Foolish child.

She had given the healing cordial back to the little queen, simply to make sure that, by some terrible twist of fate, it did not come into the possession of anyone who might be able to help Edmund. The little queen would not be alive for very much longer, and she doubted that, judging by the axe that her minotaur held so close to Lucy's neck, her siblings would wish to dig through her remains to retrieve it.

And, perhaps it had been a taunt to the girl, who held entirely too much faith in that Lion to save them.

The horn, though, she had taken with her. She would take no further chances.

The White Witch glanced back at Edmund once more, her eyes dancing with mirth as he stumbled over a root and tripped, sprawling to the ground. He looked so fragile now, so weak after such a small time in her dungeons, that she was almost disappointed after waiting so long for this.

His head knocked against a rock as he fell, and the Just King grunted in pain, unable to make any other noise past the gag, as a trickle of blood erupted from his right temple, running down his cheek and staining his jaw. He lay still, not bothering to move, as if that alone would spare him what was to come.

And he had to know what was coming. He had cheated her, Death, for far too long. All traitors belonged to the Witch, after all, and in turn, she gave them to Death. It was an arrangement that Jadis had almost come to enjoy over the years.

The wolf bent down and grabbed the back of Edmund's tunic with his teeth, yanking the little king back to his feet. Edmund cried out around the dirty rag stuffed between his teeth as he was made to stumble along the dirt path once more. The hag began prodding him with long, filthy fingernails, cackling as they marched.

There were not many of them here. Jadis was afraid she could not spare many, or the little usurper king would become suspicious, and so she had only taken those necessary to help with the boy and a few that she had wanted as witnesses.

Oh, vengeance was sweet.

She would have preferred the traitor king not half-dead, but then, one had to do with what they had. Actually, she would have loved to take the other Son of Adam as well, but after that stunt that the Lion had pulled on the Stone Table, she wasn't sure it would still have worked. After all, he was not a traitor.

No, this was as it should be. Edmund, the traitor king, would die this night, and the next, Jadis, Queen of Narnia, would be sitting upon a throne in Cair Paravel itself.

"Keep moving," she hissed at the creatures dragging Edmund along. "We must reach the Stone Table by nightfall or all will be lost."

 

The Witch's castle was theirs by nightfall. King Lune and Oreius were at the head of the charge, Archenland soldiers and Narnians at their back. The eagles were sent ahead, carrying soldiers to be dropped down behind enemy lines while the dwarves, moles, and wolves that were faithful to the Kings and Queens were hard at work, digging tunnels below the fortress.

Frankly, Peter was surprised the castle had fallen so easily. The Witch's power had grown alarmingly ever since her return. As the Witch had hidden inside all day, and not facing them in battle, he would have thought she would do a better job protecting it. It seemed the spells she had used to make it invisible to Narnia's scouts could not help her in protecting it from attack.

Thank Aslan for small favors.

He reached for the bow and arrows strapped to his shoulder, for now ignoring Rhindon, and the slight shift in weight caused a wave of nausea to rush through him. The High King gritted hiss teeth. Indeed, Oreius had not been happy that Peter wished to ride an eagle at all, but had not tried to sway him. Peter could not wait hours for the battering ram to break through the castle gates to find his sister. He needed to get in fast, and this was the fastest way he knew how.

It was not the first time he had ridden on the back of an eagle into battle, and he knew that it was a great honor to do so, but he had never taken to it as Edmund, or even Lucy, had. Being this high in the air made him feel as though his stomach was still stranded on the ground far below.

But the sight of his little brother, beaten and covered in blood, frostbitten and shivering, had convinced Peter of the need to find Lucy now. He had never seen Edmund so shattered by something that had happened to him, not even when he was kidnapped by giants and used for weeks on end as a way to ease their boredom.

Peter was not just angry over what his brother had suffered at the Witch's hands; he was livid.

And he swore to himself, holding Edmund and whispering assurances that he was sure the other boy didn't hear, that he would not allow the same thing to happen to Lucy.

Edmund and Lucy. He knew he could not allow himself to think of them now, not in the heat of battle where he needed to keep his head. Indeed, that was a lesson that Oreius and Edmund had attempted to instill in him many times. Pity he had never been much of a good listener. And, despite what they constantly told him, that emotions only got in the way when one took up a sword, Peter could not bring himself to put them aside, much as he often wanted to.

Edmund didn't see the reasoning behind that, but then, he was Edmund. The Just King, who fought as if he was the sword itself, movements like water, all emotions packed tightly away until the last enemy was down. Only then did he cease to be the lethal machine Peter had gotten used to over the years and become Edmund once more.

That was why Edmund's condition terrified his older brother so badly.

Peter was not like his brother in that way. Ever since the first time he had picked up a sword to defend his sisters against the wolves, it had been his emotions that guided him. He was a hot head, as Susan and Lucy were always reminding him, constantly trying to change that fact. Edmund had given up on trying long ago, perhaps before they had even entered Narnia.

And it was anger that caused the first arrow from Peter's bow to hit its mark; a Fell porcupine acting as a scout for the castle. It stood outside, crossbow drawn, but Peter did not give the creature the opportunity to shoot. He thought of Edmund, huddled on the ground, shivering as he clung to Peter. Of Lucy, locked away somewhere inside this horrible place, and he shot.

The other eagles, each carrying skilled archers and other fighters, navigated their way through a rain of arrows, many dislodging their own in the mean time, but just as many finding themselves shot down by the dwarfish archers the Witch kept safely within her walls. As they fell through the air, Peter's eyes followed them to where he could see Oreius leading a group of men to the gates of the castle, dragging along a battering ram.

The porcupine fell to the cold floor of the tower roof, blood splattering on blue ice, and Peter could not help the thrill of satisfaction, the feeling of justice, that coursed through him at the sight of blood-and not Edmund's or Lucy's, but a Fell Creature-hitting that ice.

Edmund would have called it revenge, not justice, that tainted Peter's thoughts.

The bow was not his weapon of choice; Susan would have been the far better candidate, but she had seemingly disappeared during the battle, and it was only later that Peter learned she had gone off to be with Edmund from one of the soldiers who had been to see the healers. For a moment, he was jealous of her, jealous that she could be with his little brother while he must fight a war, but he knew that wasn't fair.

All the same, regardless of the fact that most of his time was spent sparring with a sword, and not a bow, Peter was not unskilled when it came to archery. Susan had insisted he learn a few years ago, and now he was thankful.

The eagle beneath him, by the name of Fucius, shuddered, his whole body trembling in disgust and horror, and Peter looked down, ignoring the way his stomach seemed to leap into his mouth at the movement, to see what had troubled Fucius so.

They had passed beyond the castle gates by now, having miraculously made it past the dwarven archers inside unscathed despite the fact that many of Fucius' brothers had fallen. And the sight of the stone statues littered across the front courtyard of the castle saddened the High King, for he knew that Aslan had once cleared this place of all the Witch's victims. That she had made this many more so quickly...

The statues all stood in mock salute, facing the closed gates of the Witch's castle with longing, if a statue could be described in such a way, as if waiting for someone to come and rescue them.

And Peter couldn't help wondering if Lucy was among these statues now. He didn't dare look at them too long.

"Hurry, Fucius," Peter ordered the eagle, not liking the way his voice cracked with the words. Pulling out another arrow, he spotted yet another dwarf, weapon aimed toward Eslania, an eagle that Edmund had become particularly close with over the years, in the courtyard. All the same, he didn't think Fucius was close enough for him to take the shot. Peter closed one eye as he aimed, remembering Susan's constant instructions about using a bow clearly in his head.

"You must be able to feel the target, Peter, not only see it. You have to sense the life you are about to take, to know where it is even blinded. Far too often the eyes deceive."

The arrow soared from his hands, reminding him of the bird set loose during the Battle of Beruna, the one that caused a line of fire to divide the two armies for a brief moment, before the Witch destroyed it with her ice. But this one did not turn into a firebird. It remained an arrow even as it slammed into the dwarf's chest, just above his heart, and he lost his balance, falling back against one of the stone statues and crushing it under his superior weight.

Eslania flew on, oblivious to the danger she had so narrowly escaped.

"Let me down," Peter ordered suddenly, slipping his left leg off the eagle already.

Fucius blinked at him, golden eyes twinkling with worry. "Yes, my liege," and the eagle dropped abruptly, turning straight down, falling through the air at a break neck speed. Peter clung to the eagle, vaguely remembering having faced these heights only once before.

Edmund had laughed at Peter's discomfort the entire time, hands flying out in either direction while Peter's knuckles turned white from the grip he had on that eagle's feathers. Edmund loved to fly.

Peter slid off Fucius, bow discarded, draped over the eagle's back, and Rhindon in hand, only when the eagle was close enough to the icy ground that he would not break a bone if he did so. His boots hit the ground with a loud thud, and he grimaced upon the impact, but grimaced even more so when he realized he was surrounded on all sides by the statues.

The sight of the statues did not affect him as they would have Edmund, Lucy, or even Susan. Mr. Tumnus, frozen with such a look of misery on his face that Lucy had begun crying at the sight of him, had had an impact on them all, he knew. And Peter had only seen the Witch's handiwork during the Battle of Beruna and when the Calormen boy was brought to Cair, not so very long ago.

Fucius was gone by the time Peter turned around, having returned to the sky with silent, elegant wings barely moving. Elsania flew down a moment later, depositing a Narnian dwarf who was good at the bow, and had trained under Susan. The dwarf glanced around suspiciously before letting his arrows fly.

It was then that Peter remembered the battle around him, and did an about-turn, checking his surroundings. The Witch's guards that had been left within the Castle were quickly circling them, faces twisted maliciously.

He grimaced. Fighting the Fell Creatures was always difficult, and not because they were any more or less skilled than giants or Calormene soldiers, but because they were so difficult to tell apart from the Loyal Narnians. It was not as if a specific group of Narnians made up the Fell while the rest were Loyal- plenty of wolves and dwarves had turned from the Witch when the Golden Age began. Just as plenty of those whom Peter would never have suspected to be Fell had joined the Witch's exiled followers.

And now, watching dwarf fight against dwarf, Peter felt a sudden sadness, that it had come to this. Brother fighting against brother.

He had been the one to give the order that every Fell Creature was to be killed on sight, not captured, though it had pained him to do so, knowing what a threat they would be if they were allowed to live. He felt immeasurable guilt about it now, seeing creatures he was supposed to be protecting, even if they had turned against he and his siblings, die.

One of the eagles was suddenly hit by the stray arrow of a Fell minotaur's crossbow, slamming into the ice with an impact large enough to cause the ground to shake. The dwarf beside Peter made quick work of the minotaur who had caused the eagle's demise, even as the rest of the fighters-Archenland archers and swordsmen alongside Narnians-were deposited into the courtyard, dropping from their carriers with ease.

A harpy was suddenly flying towards him, out one of the open windows of the castle. It gave a screeching yell as it descended, and Peter regretted leaving his bow and arrows with Fucius. Yanking Rhindon up in defense, he slashed at the creature, but the angry harpy moved out of the way at the last moment, taunting Peter with a leering grin.

Then he attacked again, swooping down in the High King swiftly, and Peter just managed to duck before the claws of the Fell Creature would have embedded themselves in Peter's neck.

The harpy let out a scream of rage, catapulting himself towards Peter once more, but this time, Peter was ready for him. Rhindon sliced through the air, and the head of the harpy slammed into the snow, body quickly following, blood splattering across Peter and the statues standing nearby. The harpy's soulless eyes stared up at Peter, and he could almost imagine that he still felt the anger in their depths.

Peter did not waste a moment longer. "Find Queen Lucy!" he shouted to the large group, over the sound of flapping wings and stinging arrows. "And find the Witch! Her being loose is a danger to us all!"

He did not have much of a plan beyond that. He was vaguely aware of being gathered along with the generals, Oreius, and King Lune to make battle plans, but his thoughts were a mess, focused only on his siblings. Even so, he remembered enough to know there had been no finalized plan for destroying the Witch herself; only her army, and taking her castle.

To be honest, he wasn't sure if there was a way to destroy the Witch. Aslan had been the one to do so in the past, not him, and he knew that he would have died by her hand that day if it had not been for the Lion. Killing her now, without Aslan there to help, seemed like an impossible task now that he thought of it.

It was the first time he had thought of Aslan in a long time, and it rather surprised him. He had been so quick to give up on Aslan earlier, to claim that he had abandoned them after the Witch returned and Edmund was taken, but perhaps he had been wrong to do so.

The Lion had never abandoned them before, and it would certainly be strange for him to do so now. He had only to trust, with Lucy's unshakable faith, that Aslan would come, even if he had not come so far, in this time of desperate need for him.

If he did not, Peter wasn't sure they would live through the week.

The fighters divided into six groups of three, a small task force but Peter did not want to risk more sneaking into the Witch's castle. Besides, there had been twenty-six of them when they started out, only to be shot down by the Witch's archers.

A ram and an Archenlander followed Peter, silent as they trekked into the castle itself. They met with a few soldiers along the way, all of which Peter either dispatched with Rhindon, or the ram and Archenlander dispatched with their crossbows. Luckily, despite the archers in the courtyard, no alarm seemed to have alerted the rest of the castle to their presence. If they had been alerted, he would not have seen the looks of shock on each face of the Fell as they came into contact with him. Peter found this highly suspicious, if the Witch was here, and stayed on his guard.

It could very well be a trap.

The Witch's castle was not a well-known place, and, indeed, had been built like a fortress, but they had enough Narnians who had turned after the Witch's first defeat to have learned the basic outline of the castle.

He figured Lucy would have been moved to the dungeons, if the Witch wanted to keep her from being rescued. However, he also doubted the Witch would leave the throne room, where she could easily give orders, and he further doubted that she would let the young queen from her sight. And so the groups were divided, with the other three groups setting out to lock the castle down as quickly as possible while one group hurried to the dungeon.

Peter's group and the last group headed to the throne room first. Even if Lucy were down in the dungeons, he could not send his men to face the Witch alone. Oreius and King Lune had been quite reluctant when he announced during the planning that this was his intention.

The ram walked confidently behind him, crossbow pressed against his shoulder and neck as he waited for another target to appear. The Archenlander walked before him, not entirely sure where he was going but under strict orders to do anything necessary to protect the High King of Narnia. If a Fell Creature rounded the corner and took a shot before he could be taken care of, the Archenlander insisted on going first, so that the arrow would hit him and not Peter.

The second group, which consisted of a centaur, a hedgehog, and a fox, trudged along in silence behind them.

"When we reach the throne room, if the Queen is there, the two of you will get her out of the castle if possible," Peter ordered suddenly, hand still clenching tightly to the hilt of Rhindon.

The ram and Archenlander glanced at him in surprise. "My lord," the Archenlander spoke up when the ram would not, "Then you will be left to face her with only three to protect you."

The centaur took a step forward, dipping his head. "My lord-"

Peter shook his head. "That is an order. I will stay behind and see to the White Witch."

A hesitant pause. "Yes, my lord."

The ram made quick work of the guard outside the throne room while Peter and the rest made sure no one was following them.

The throne room looked marginally different from when Peter had seen it last, merely hours ago. It appeared even more majestic, icicles hanging down from the walls and ceiling like some rich décor, and the floor was so thick one could no longer see the scuff marks that had been left by the resulting battle when Oreius came to fetch them from the Witch's deals.

"Aslan have mercy," Peter whispered, for he knew that this meant only one thing. The Witch's strength was growing, and was farther along than it had ever been when she had plagued Narnia the first time Peter faced her.

Then he saw his sister, saw the minotaur looming over her, saw the blade of an axe inches from her neck, though she did not appear coherent enough to notice. And then, he saw a thing far stranger. One of the Fell Creatures, a black dwarf, dove between the axe and the youngest Queen of Narnia, taking her hands as the blade came down on him, rather than her.

And Peter ran.

 

Lucy leaned back against the ice wall behind her, sighing deeply and wishing she were at Dancing Lawn with the dryads, so beautiful this time of year. Even if it were an untimely winter, Dancing Lawn was always beautiful. The fawns playing their tunes, the dryads begging Edmund to dance with them when Lucy had already danced for hours, the joyful laughing and singing filling the night air.

Anywhere but here, really, would be nice. She was even beginning to miss Tashbaan, with its constant warm weather and...

She knew that it was her duty to at least attempt an escape from the Witch's castle, even if there was a rescue being planned for her. She was the Queen, and she owed it to her people not to be put into needless danger.

But she was finding it very difficult to come up with a plan of her own. Especially with the minotaur standing before her, glaring down at her with those beady black eyes, hefting his axe as though he would like nothing more than to behead her with it at this moment.

It had been like this for the last several hours, the only break from the monotony the sounds of war outside the castle. Lucy had not been able to figure out whether the sounds were good tidings or bad until about an hour ago, when she finally managed to learn, from studying the minotaur's almost impassive face, what they meant. Every hour or so, a harpy would fly into the throne room and give a report to the minotaur and the others standing guard, though always too quietly for Lucy to hear.

But she knew from the last report, from the look of fear that quickly passed the minotaur's face, that the Fell Creatures and the Witch were losing.

She could have cheered, if she were not afraid of that axe falling down on her neck if she did so.

She had been a prisoner of war once before, in Calormen, but it had been far more interesting than this. Simply sitting here, waiting. Waiting had never been something Lucy was very good at, as Susan was constantly reminding her.

Waiting and realizing all the incredibly stupid decisions she had made in the last several weeks, all of which now bore down on her, almost tauntingly, and far more terrifyingly, than the axe above her.

Lucy fingered the healing cordial in silence, holding it awkwardly between bound hands. She almost couldn't believe the White Witch had left it with her, but in the end, it was useless anyways, and perhaps the Witch had known that when she threw it back towards Lucy before leaving the castle to face the battle. Perhaps it had been a taunt, for Lucy had no need of the cordial now and it only reminded her how foolish she had been to bring it along. The wolves that had defended her so valiantly were dead, and the cordial would not heal them. And Edmund, wherever he was, could not use the cordial if it was still with Lucy.

Perhaps the Witch's way of saying that, if she lived, the cordial would be of no use to her, for the Witch was planning on killing everyone she loved anyway.

Yes, in the beginning she had brought the cordial because she thought that she would be able to find and rescue Edmund, and then heal whatever the Witch had done to him. But she should have known better, should have known that bringing the cordial with her and not keeping it with the army that was selflessly going to fight against the Witch was a foolish idea. Now Peter had Edmund safely away, or so she hoped, and he could very well still die from his wounds.

She could only hope that he would be all right until she reached him with the cordial.

She shifted against the wall, attempting to scoot away from the bodies of the dead wolves who had so valiantly tried to protect her. The minotaur growled a warning, turning to her once more.

"Stay put," he snapped.

Lucy froze, staring up at him and giving him the ghost of a smile. "I'm not going anywhere," she promised, but the minotaur only glared at her in response.

Then he grunted, turning from her once more to stand at attention in front of her. It was the most he had spoken to her so far, and she took it as a small victory. Better than dying of boredom and worry.

She noticed the wound on his right shoulder a few moments after that, a nasty looking injury from the small battle earlier, and the way he kept that shoulder slouched. Lucy glanced down at the cordial clutched tightly in her hands for a moment before coming to a decision and asking, "Does that hurt?" as she nodded towards his injury.

She wasn't sure what made her ask, as he was an enemy and very close to cleaving off her head. But the words were out before she could stop them, and something within her seemed to whisper that it was the right thing to do. She was a healer, after all, or, at least, becoming one, and couldn't stand to see someone in pain when she could put an end to it.

And maybe her worry for Edmund, her inability to do anything to help him, spurred the question. For she could not help Edmund, but perhaps she could help this creature.

The minotaur turned to her once more, the wound practically hidden under his fur when he faced her. "Does what hurt?" he demanded angrily, irritated that she was still talking.

Lucy nodded to his right shoulder once more, and he glanced down at it before grunting and starting to turn away from her.

"Wait!" she cried out, and he paused. "I could...heal you. That wound looks bad. With this," she held up the little bottle between bound wrists, red liquid sloshing inside.

The minotaur glared down at her, then at the cordial, and then back at her again. He stomped forward, heaving the axe over his uninjured shoulder, before demanding icily, "What is this?" he snatched the little bottle from her grip, and Lucy watched it go sadly, unable to stop him.

He stared at the cordial suspiciously, obviously finding it interesting enough to divert his attentions for a few moments. It was not yet time to kill the little Queen, after all. The White Witch had said she was to be killed if the castle was taken, and though the Fell Creatures were clearly losing, they had yet to lose the castle completely.

"It's a healing cordial," Lucy explained, finding it easier to speak than to be trapped in the oppressive silence of the throne room, surrounded by Fell Creatures who had orders to kill her. Speaking somehow made it seem less real, as though she were actually back at Beavers' Dam, safe and sound. "I got it from Father Christmas when my siblings and I first entered Narnia." She smiled at the memory. "One drop can heal any injury."

The minotaur lifted the cordial into the light, inspecting it silently. When he heard her words, he flinched as if the bottle scalded him. "This is the Lion's magic?"

Lucy blinked at him, noting how not even he would say the Lion's name. Did it affect them all then, and not just the Witch? "I...no. No, it's from Father Christmas." A pause. "It won't hurt you."

"I very much doubt that," the minotaur snapped, glowering at the cordial as if his gaze alone would destroy it. "Probably some poison that'll kill me if I drink it."

"It's not," Lucy insisted, wondering why she was even trying to explain this to one of the Witch's Fell. Peter wouldn't have understood it. The minotaur was an enemy, and she should not be befriending him.

But perhaps Edmund would have understood. The minotaur was huge and full of hate, ready to kill her at any moment, and yet Lucy could not bring herself to hate him. Indeed, it would have been the first time she was able to truly hate anyone, and all she felt for him in that moment was pity.

"Then why give it to an enemy?" the minotaur demanded, looming over her.

Lucy swallowed hard. "I...you need it. I thought..."

The minotaur grunted in disgust, tossing the cordial aside carelessly. Lucy let out a cry of indignation as the cordial fell from his fingers, watching it fall through the air and unable to do anything about it in her bound state.

One foolish decision after another, she thought with a sigh. She had only been trying to help him, this minotaur, where she could not help her brother.

It plummeted towards the ice floor, and she could almost see it slamming into the hard ice and shattering, the liquid inside splashing over everything within a certain radius. Lucy breathed a silent prayer, closing her eyes and waiting for the sound that would alert her to the fact that her gift from Father Christmas, arguably the most important of any of the gifts he had given her siblings, was destroyed.

That noise never came, and Lucy tentatively opened one eye.

The black dwarf who had stood guard by the Witch's throne stood between her and the minotaur, cordial held firmly in his left hand. The dwarf was favoring his left leg. He stared down at it with a look of dull curiosity and Lucy held her breath, waiting for him to get bored and cast it aside once more, as the minotaur had.

"It heals any injury?" he repeated dumbly, his voice lower than she would have expected, and Lucy could do nothing but nod. "Why did Her Majesty allow you to keep it then?"

"The Queen said not to speak with the prisoner," the minotaur spoke up suddenly, fully aware that he had spoken to her only a moment earlier but pretending he had just remembered the orders.

The dwarf ignored him, staring hard at Lucy, still waiting for an answer.

"I...don't know," she said, not wanting to explain what she really thought, not wanting to voice her own hopelessness. Aslan, where are you?

"What do you think you're doing?" one of the harpies hanging from the ceiling rasped out, flying down beside the black dwarf and glowering at him. "The minotaur's right. It probably is poison."

They stared at the healing cordial a beat longer, and then the dwarf was holding it out to her. Lucy blinked in surprise, meeting his gaze and startling at what she found there. "Then she'll drink it. This leg wound is giving me pain. If she gets better, then we'll know."

Lucy's hands shook for a reason she could not explain as she took the cordial and uncorked it, bringing the small bottle to her lips and wondering why she hesitated. Perhaps the White Witch had given her the bottle because she had...tainted it somehow.

She drank it anyway, not sensing anything to be wrong with her cordial, and immediately felt the many bruises and scrapes she had acquired during her time as a prisoner to the Witch-and before then, when she was in the forest with the mice-begin to fade and disappear altogether. She felt a renewed strength run through her, a heat filling her belly and expanding down her limbs.

It felt like a cool glass of water after crossing the desert.

She had felt the effects of the cordial many times before, despite Peter's constant warnings to use it sparingly, but each time was different, pleasant in its own way. Often, she would feel displaced for a moment, completely taken in by the effects of the fire-flower juice, and it would make her feel as though she had gone to some pleasant paradise, if only for a moment. This one made her think of summer and swimming in the ocean beside Cair Paravel with her siblings.

It was as if the weight of the last few weeks was gone, and Lucy breathed a small sigh of contentment, though it was short-lived. She was still a captive in the Witch's castle, the Witch's soldiers looming entirely too close to her for comfort, even if it was to see that she was better.

She had not bothered to heal the minor injuries before, when the Witch first handed over the cordial, even with the power of the cordial that could do so. Not when Edmund was out there somewhere, in so much more pain than she. What were a few bruises compared to the lashes Edmund had endured, the pain he even now suffered because she had taken the cordial?

"You see?" She looked up at the Fell Creatures with a smile, and then the black dwarf was ripping the cordial from her grip with a look of greedy glee.

The dwarf gave her a strange look, a look that she could not interpret, before popping off the lid of the cordial and lifting the little bottle to his lips.

"Easy," Lucy whispered. The other Fell Creatures were drawing closer, watching the dwarf as though they thought he would fall over dead at any second, despite the power they had just seen the cordial capable of. The minotaur's axe was now in hand, pointed towards Lucy in a clear threat, though now even he looked doubtful.

The change that came over the black dwarf after taking a gulp of her cordial was astonishing, even to Lucy, who had seen it a thousand times on a thousand different faces. He had not looked ill until the moment he sipped the cordial.

One moment, the dwarf was looking rather green, his body slightly hunched over but clearly not from any fatal injury, and the next, a bit of pink returned to his cheeks. His body straightened and he stood proudly, before reaching down to his leg and feeling it, eyes growing wide with wonder.

"My leg. It's...healed." He turned to Lucy with a look of shock, as if he had not quite believed her cordial capable of the abilities she boasted, despite having already tested them on the young queen, until this moment. "You healed me."

Lucy shook her head, unable to keep the smile from her features. Even if he was a Fell Creature, her heart was too kind to not feel happiness when the cordial worked. "It wasn't I. It was-"

The double doors to the throne room burst open before she could continue, and Lucy suddenly found herself thrown backwards, slamming against the solid ice she had previously been leaning against, letting out a pain-filled scream as agony ripped through her body from the force of the impact. It was a rather had impact, considering how close she was to the wall already.

She could feel wetness on her cheek, traveling down her chin and neck, and knew in that instant from the amount of pain coursing through her that her cheekbone had been shattered. The world was ringing in her ears, spinning uncontrollably despite the fact that her eyes were closed. White lights crisscrossed in Lucy's vision, and she gulped back a sob. The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt before, and her eyes filled almost instantly, after the shock of the moment abated.

Her left eye was sealed shut by the skin around it, though she attempted to open her right, and found that this did not help her in the least. She could not see past the tears welling there.

Lucy breathed a panicked sob once more at her sudden blindness and lifted bound hands to her cheek. She gently prodded at, instantly cringing at the pain this elicited, and removed her hand. But not before she felt the way her cheekbone crunched underneath her hands, seemingly split in two, and the terrible bruise just beginning to form on her jaw. She thought perhaps her nose had been broken by the blow, as well.

Lucy could remember a time when she had been in Archenland, helping care for the civilians that had gotten into a terrible skirmish with the Calormene army after a trade disagreement, and had seen a man, lying near death on the floor, face crushed. The bones on the entire left side of his face seemed nonexistent, the skin sagging horribly into his face.

When she had healed him, it had not appeared to be as kind as usual. The healing itself seemed to hurt the man, terribly, and he cried out until it was over, when he was whole once more.

She had no doubt that the same had happened to her.

Wonderful. And she had handed the cordial off to a Fell Creature. No matter what she thought, no matter that they had been impressed by her cordial's healing abilities, they cared very little for herself. And were the enemy.

Lucy could feel hot tears stinging her eyes, and she let out a small whimper, unable to hold it back despite her desire to do so, to not seem weak in this moment when she needed to be strong.

"Lucy!" she heard someone screaming her name, and tried to turn towards them, knowing that the voice sounded vaguely like Peter, but she could not see beyond her blurry eyes. Could see nothing but the blue and white of the Witch's castle, and perhaps a bit of the brown and black that formed the shape of a minotaur in front of her.

Then she felt the cold blade of something sharp touching her neck, and she froze. It was there for only an instant, and Lucy closed her eyes, preparing for the blow that would sever her head from the rest of her body, but, as with the shattering of the cordial, it never came.

A moment later, the cold blade was gone, and small, hairy hands were pressing the healing cordial into her own, still bound together, but the furry hands did nothing about this. No words passed between them, but then, no words were needed.

In the next second, the axe had found a new victim, and hot blood that was not her own drenched Lucy's clothes and skin. She knew at once that it belonged to the black dwarf that had been healed, who had, in a last act of defiance, given her back her cordial and, just maybe, saved her life. Perhaps he had not even realized that he was taking the blade for her, only thought that he was returning her cordial.

Lucy did not hesitate, popping off the top to the cordial and pressing the glass lid to her lips. Red liquid shot past her teeth and fire coursed through her belly, and she could feel her own blood, though not the dwarf's, beginning to disappear altogether, cuts and gashes closing up, her face repairing itself. She was right. It was painful, and she let out a few small gasps.

When she could properly see again, Peter was kneeling before her, the minotaur lying dead on the ice behind him. Peter pulled Rhindon from the minotaur's stomach, cutting Lucy's bonds. She threw her arms around his neck the moment her hands were free, clinging to him and drenching him in the dwarf's blood as well, but neither seemed to mind.

"I was so worried that I would be too late," Peter confessed softly in her ear, clutching her as tightly as Edmund had clutched him, only a few hours before. "That she would have..."

"I'm all right, Peter," Lucy whispered back, comfortingly. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I thought I saw-" he pulled back from the embrace then, lifting her chin so that he could get a good look at her. Lucy grinned, holding up the cordial he had yet to see in answer. Peter's eyes widened, and he gave her the ghost of a smile before standing once more, pulling the Valiant Queen to her feet.

The battle raging around them quickly tore brother and sister apart, but not before Peter pressed a dagger into Lucy's hands. It was not her dagger, as she had no idea where the weapon given to her by Father Christmas was now, presumably confiscated by the Witch along with Susan's horn, but it was enough for now.

It seemed that the Witch still had forces lying in wait, for, though the guards of the throne room had been quickly disposed of when Peter entered the room, more Fell Creatures replaced them.

Lucy managed to hold her own, plunging her dagger into the harpy who had protested the dwarf using the cordial, and feeling only the tiniest hint of guilt when she did so. Her thoughts focused on Edmund, on where he might be now, if Peter was here without him, on if he was all right. Peter had said nothing of him yet, and a terrible feeling was beginning to sit awkwardly at the pit of Lucy's stomach.

But then the sound that Peter had been waiting for was heard by all, and the remaining Fell Creatures quickly realized their mistake. For the gates of the White Witch's castle were broken by the battering ram that Peter had set Oreius in charge of, a loud crashing noise reverberating through the castle as the gates fell, and then the pounding of hooves and feet alike as the armies of Narnia and Archenland took the White Witch's castle.

The remaining Fell Creatures were quick to surrender. The Giants outside would not fight with the Witch so soundly defeated, not after their last battle alone against the High King of Narnia.

The battle was over. They had won.

Lucy dove into Peter's arms a moment later, and he scooped her off her feet, spinning the young queen around before setting her back down on the ice once more. She was laughing, and he almost wanted to join her, but something he couldn't quite place was holding him back.

"Your Majesty!" Oreius shouted above the din filling the Witch's throne room as he entered, surrounded by Narnians and standing alongside King Lune, who was frowning with a look of worry on his usually jovial features.

Peter glanced up, and, seeing the concern on their faces, realized suddenly what had clawed at the back of his mind, keeping him from feeling the celebration that Lucy so obviously felt.

He turned away from Lu then, turned towards the back of the throne room, where the remaining Fell Creatures were being bound and forced to stand in a highly guarded row. But he was looking beyond that, at the empty throne of the White Witch.

The other groups, sent to secure the castle and sent to the dungeons in case Lucy was there, returned then, and reported what Peter already knew.

The White Witch was not here. She had never been, nor had she been at the battle. And it was not in Jadis' nature to flee when she thought she could gain the upper hand.

Peter's eyes widened as he glanced around, never having thought he would be so desperate to get some glimpse of the White Witch. A terrible fear swept through him, and one word, a name, escaped his lips. "Edmund!"

 

Edmund was barely lucid as they dragged him forward, head hanging against his chest. He vaguely understood that the arms gripping his so tightly; the bodies pressing in around him, forcing his injured feet forward even as they stumbled over anything and everything in their path, were not friendly. He struggled weakly against them, making the tripping all the more likely, but somehow, even in his feverish state, he knew that escape would be near impossible.

Before he understood what he wanted to say, the word slipped between Edmund's teeth, "Stop..." He didn't think he would be able to go much farther.

Where was Peter? He remembered Peter, earlier, arms wrapped around him comfortingly, telling him that all would be well, that Peter would never let anything happen to Edmund again. So why wasn't he here? Had that just been a dream? A product of Edmund's imagination after so long alone in the Witch's dungeons? Was he going mad?

But no. He remembered Susan, too, her soft hands carding through his hair as they sat in a tent together, and then... He didn't know what then after that.

Through blistered lips, Edmund called out softly, in a voice between a whisper and a cry, "Peter..."

His muscles throbbed all over, his heart beating wildly in his chest as his body was forced into a near-jog in its dilapidated state. His back, covered in nasty scars, felt as though it were on fire. He couldn't feel his legs; only that whatever was below his waist hurt. It was also soaked; soaked through the boots he did not remember donning, and the pants that weren't even his, as his feet sludged through deep snow. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a long time in that welcoming snow, wanted to...

His thoughts ricocheted off each other in tired confusion, bearing down on him heavily. He could barely keep hold of one before another arrived and stole its place, unmerciful in its intensity.

The creatures who had captured his arms ignored the feverish pleas; if anything, they only pushed him forward faster, wicked intent in their yellow eyes.

Without warning, his left foot slammed into a heavy, slick stone, dislodging it and causing his knees to buckle. He could suddenly feel his legs again, though he wished they were still blissfully numb. His arms, still held firmly, were the only things holding him up at all.

Someone muttered a curse that Lucy would have blushed at, and then the heavy weights on his arms were gone. Edmund dropped to his knees in relief, body swaying forward like a leaf in the wind. He suspected it would not take much more than a small gust of wind at that moment to knock him over. He almost wished it would.

He bent until he could feel his sweaty, pale forehead pressed against the packed down snow below him, startled at how calming the feel of wet snow was in that moment. It had never felt so before, not since dealing with Her, and perhaps not even before then.

Though he had only just regained consciousness, the thought of sleep and rest was beautifully at the forefront of his mind, and the snow felt like a kind pillow.

"Get up, Son of Adam."

Edmund's eyes shot open. For he knew that voice, knew it well despite his inability to remember anything more of it than the fact that it was, somehow, the embodiment of pure evil.

The woman standing before him was beautiful and terrifying at once. His fevered mind quickly supplied a name for this being: the White Witch.

Edmund shied back in horror and she laughed; a musical, wretched sound that at the same time grated on his eardrums and soothed them.

He blinked at her, eyes still adjusting to the darkness.

The smile she rewarded him with was one made of ice. "So you are awake. Good. I had wanted you to witness these, your last moments."

Then rough, furry hands were hauling him to his feet once more. He ignored the way his knees locked at the prospect of standing and glanced around in a desperate attempt to find out where he was and how he had gotten there. The Witch's words hardly made sense to him until his fevered mind made the connection, and he gulped, his throat dry.

The Stone Table stood before them, only a few paces away, tall and proud, despite its cracked and vine-covered appearance, in the starry night sky. Overhead twinkled hundreds of beautiful, bright stars, and Edmund tried to focus on these rather than the harbinger of death looming before him. He had never been to the Stone Table at night, and the darkness added a decidedly terrifying aspect to the scene before him. And so he stared at the stars.

Unbidden, thoughts of Alambil, stories told him by Oreius and his brothers, entered his mind, and he wondered if she was watching over him from above.

He had only ever prayed to Aslan before, but in that moment, he sent desperate thoughts to the Lady of Peace.

For that was all he wanted: peace. Peace from all the fighting, from the torment of the White Witch. It didn't matter to him how that peace was received, only that he did receive it. For if this was a dream, then he wanted to wake and never be treated with such a nightmare again.

Unbeknownst to him, that peace would be granted soon enough. Or perhaps Edmund did know; knew more than he was willing to believe he did in that moment.

The White Witch eyed her prisoner in silence, and Edmund squirmed underneath that gaze, glancing away. Then came the soft command of, "Bind him."

It was all a dream. Only a dream. Soon enough, he would wake up, safe in Peter's arms, and everything would be fine. He would have peace. Peter would be there, and they would be in Cair Paravel, and Peter would tell him that everything was all right, that it was only another wretched nightmare. Because what else could it possibly be?

The bindings, where they cut into his arms and sides, felt all too real for this to be a simple dream.

Edmund swallowed hard as his captors, whom he now recognized as Fell Creatures, finished binding him and proceeded to drag him forward, towards that infernal, broken stone. He did not want this. He could not be here. He needed to run, to get out of here...

Edmund struggled against them as best he could, though he knew it was useless. A paw slapped his cheek, and he dug his heels into the snow, planting himself firmly.

The White Witch rolled her eyes. "We do not have the time for this," she snapped, and one of the Fell; a minotaur, picked him up, dragging Edmund forward and throwing him face down on the side of the now broken table that was still flat enough to hold him.

His face smashed against the cold stone, the rest of his body following soon after, and pain shot down Edmund's spine. His hair flew up into the air and smacked back down against his forehead. Rough, greasy hands manhandled him, pulling him to his knees and forcing his eyes towards the stars once more.

A scream wrenched its way past Edmund's throat, and he was surprised when he was not quickly punished for it. Turning so he could see the Witch, he realized why. She was smirking down at him, wand in hand, unconcerned by his scream. In fact, she even looked as though she were enjoying it immensely.

He did not dare look at her Fell, to see their reaction, for he knew it would be the same.

Bending down so that she was nearly at eye level with the young king, the Witch whispered, so that only he could hear, "There's no one to hear." Her pale hand ran through his hair, as Susan's had done not hours ago, a mockery. Had it been hours? Or years?

It took a moment for her words to sink in, exhausted and confused as he was. But when they did, his eyes widened in terror and, despite his bound hands, he managed to push away her mocking hand.

The White Witch's words made him cringe, blind with horror. Where was Peter? Where were the rest of his siblings? Why was there no one to hear him?

Had she killed them?

The thought was too difficult to bear, and Edmund pushed it aside in light of more pressing matters. Namely, the long, jagged knife the Witch now held in her left hand. The wand had disappeared, but this wasn't the same knife that had once killed Aslan.

Edmund swallowed hard. He shouldn't be afraid; he knew that. Nothing the Witch could do could harm him; he had learned that lesson long ago. Not even death, for though it might be painful-would most definitely be painful, he figured now- he would soon find himself in Aslan's country.

Edmund lifted his chin defiantly, and the Witch's eyebrows lifted in surprise at something she saw in his face. She took a step back, holding her knife out towards him as if he were the threat here.

He was a King of Narnia. He wasn't going to die like this, bound and at the mercy of the one who haunted his nightmares. He had to fight back. He had to defeat her, or he would wake up and suffer her the next night, and every night after.

Unless he was wrong, and this wasn't a dream. What, then?

"Why..." he whispered, the words seeping painfully past his swollen lips. She bent down to hear, a surprisingly gentle look on her face. "Why...didn't you just...kill me when you first...saw me in Narnia? Would have been...easier."

It was the question that had plagued him since she had killed Aslan upon the Stone Table. And if this was real, if it wasn't a dream, then he wanted to know the answer before she killed him this time.

The Witch answered anyway, knife roaming down his neck as if she were choosing the perfect place to stab him. He sucked in a breath as it pressed tightly against his jugular, the veins on his neck sticking out in an obvious display of the fear he tried so desperately to quench.

"It was a foolish mistake. At first, I could not understand why he would do such a thing. I would merely kill you in battle the next day, anyway, and he would no longer be there to protect you. But I did not think long on the matter. I thought that, if I killed him, nothing could stand in my way. Narnia would be mine. And perhaps the thought of killing him was too strong for me to ignore."

She looked almost sad as the knife ran down Edmund's chest, the crimson line trailing behind it making his skin even paler in the moonlight.

Her words made little sense to him as they seeped through his befuddled mind, a mind screaming for help, for Peter...She had Edmund at an unfair advantage. At least she knew what was going on here.

Hadn't he been safe in Susan's arms, in the Narnian camp? Surely, that proved that this was just a nightmare, and, with that in mind, he began his struggle with renewed fervor.

If this was a nightmare, then he was not truly injured, not here, though he might still be when he awoke. He could beat this.

"I underestimated the Deep Magic that night, and for that I paid a most terrible price. Just as you, Edmund, have underestimated it. Did you think you could escape your fate forever, Son of Adam? For this was always your destiny, from the moment you ate that Turkish Delight and promised me your siblings. It was your fault that Aslan died that night, on the Stone Table, and yet you were never punished. The time has come to rectify that."

Edmund stared at her through the haze that was slowly settling over his mind once again. The bonds at his wrists cut deeply, and he could feel blood beginning to trickle down into his palms as he considered her words, her accusation.

Once, her words might have rung true. Several years ago, he might have believed them. That he was the one in the wrong here, and that this was his restitution, however unwilling.

"You are a traitor, Edmund, and all traitors belong to me. It is long past the time for you to pay that price."

In truth, in a very small way, he had been punished, though it was truly a punishment of his own making, fueled by guilt. It was not for some time that he had realized how false his thoughts were, and how false the Witch's were now; until the third year of the Pevensies' reign in Narnia...

 

Lucy's crusade to convince Edmund to come with her to the Stone Table that year had been unrelenting, as she continued it every spring despite Edmund's constant refusal to follow her. She was not one to give up easily, his younger sister.

The youngest queen had already taken Peter to the Stone Table, twice, within the first year that they became the leaders of Narnia. Susan usually went as well on Lucy's sojourns to this place, but lately she had been so caught up in affairs of state that there simply wasn't the time. But Lucy went more than once every year, without fail, as if paying homage, and every time she asked that Ed come with her. To the Stone Table.

"Ed, please come with me," she'd beg, hanging on his arm as he thought desperately of an excuse. "I..." an almost shy look would cross her features. "I think it would be good for you to see it."

And Edmund, who engaged in fierce battles with more eagerness, declined to go each time, thinking up some excuse for why it was a terrible idea that month. And he pretended not to see the look of sadness on Lucy's face as she turned away from him.

He knew what she was thinking. He knew that his siblings felt almost burdened by his guilt, an overwhelming guilt, that, despite Aslan's forgiveness, as well as Narnia's, threatened to overwhelm him. For they knew what Narnia did not.

Edmund had not yet forgiven himself, though the world over may have forgiven him, after everything he had done to make up for past mistakes.

Peter said nothing of it, seemed to think that if Edmund fought hard enough for Narnia, he would eventually see reason. That no one blamed him and that it was in the past, as Aslan had once said. That he should no longer blame himself. Susan looked upon his guilt with sad eyes and said nothing.

But Lucy, dear, sweet Lucy, felt that, if he could only go to the place where Aslan had been sacrificed, where he still felt that he should have been sacrificed, he would find true absolution in his heart.

And so she continued to ask, despite the annoyed looks Susan would flash her for the persistence when it was clear that any hope of Edmund's going was dead, or the rejection Edmund would give each time her question reached his ears.

But it was the one time that she didn't push him towards that decision, the fifth time she went that year, when she had given up hope on his ever coming with her, that he asked her if he could go with her of his own accord. She announced that she was going at breakfast, and Susan seemed to brace herself for what would come next. But Lucy had gone silent after that, picking at her food.

"Lu..." Edmund spoke up then, licking dry lips until she turned those hopeful, wide eyes upon him. "Do you...Do you think that I can come with you, this time?"

To this day, he still wasn't quite sure what had made him do so. Perhaps it was the Deep Magic, or perhaps it was something else. But he would never forget the way her face lit up at the question, nor the way she stood from the table and ran around it, grinning as she stood before him.

"Why, of course, Ed!" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "Of course you can come. Shall we leave this evening?"

They ignored the identical looks of shock on the faces of Susan and Mr. Tumnus, which would have been quite comical but for the unexplained feeling of dread in Edmund's gut.

And so it had been settled. Edmund and Lucy had left Cair in the capable hands of Queen Susan (Peter was fighting the giants to the North) and had gone to the Stone Table, with an entourage of twelve or so guardsmen following them for protection. Lucy always took guards with her, though she felt them unneeded, especially now that Edmund was going with her, but Susan threatened not to let them go at all without the guards present.

The journey to what had once been the most feared relic in all of Narnia took a few days, but only because Lucy insisted on making a few stops along the way. A visit to the Foxes, who lived near to Cair, who offered to let them spend the night and have dinner in a way that could not be refused. A stop by a lazy river to meet one of the naiads who had stubbornly refused to care for her river recently.

It turned out to be a good thing King Edmund had come along, in that way, at least. The naiad was quite taken with him and hurriedly agreed with Lucy, all the while staring at him in a way that made the young king blush.

Then there had been the run-in with the deer, who wouldn't let the two youngest monarchs of Narnia out of his sight for quite some time and Lucy, though not wanting to be rude, did not want the deer following them on this private affair to the Table. She'd had to think up a clever way to be rid of the beast, as Edmund, busy brooding, was no help.

Edmund, for his part, had been very quiet in that journey, though he had traveled to these places many times before and not felt the uncertain melancholy that trapped him now. But in these days before reaching the Stone Table, everything felt so different from any of the times he had trekked here before. He could feel a weighty oppression in the air, bearing down on him, trying to force him back to Cair, where it was safe. Where he didn't have to see this.

The woods that he enjoyed listening to now held a foreboding of evil to come. The Foxes' home reminded him of the Beavers' Dam, and was a reminder of his betrayal, of his long journey to the Witch's castle. And the Stone Table...

They reached the ruins of the Stone Table sometime in the early morning of their eighth day of traveling, the sun still splitting through the horizon. It filled the sky with a dull pink that reminded Edmund of blood.

The Stone Table was not as he remembered it. Though Lucy did not know, he had been here once before, after everything, and that visit was the reason her constant begging that he came with her had such little effect on him. Aslan knew that no one could resist her pouting face for very long, and yet he had managed for three long years.

He'd come alone, wanting to atone, wanting to see exactly what Aslan had done for him. His siblings had been at a ball, one of their first, and so he hadn't been missed. He'd even managed to sneak past his own guard.

He hadn't been ready for the sight. Hadn't been ready for the dried blood still staining the cracked table, nor the pieces of a lion's mane that the Witch had forgotten. Hadn't been ready for... And King Edmund the Just had cried, deep, wrenching sobs that wracked his whole body until there were no tears left.

He had left that night, weighed down with more guilt than ever, knowing that he could never be forgiven, for Aslan had done all of this for him; all of this was his fault. And he had never returned to the Table, not until Lucy finally stopped begging him to.

But the Table was different now. Dirt had filled in some of the cracks, though not the main one. Vines had grown around it. That awful bloodstain was gone. Edmund knew that the Talking Mice, who had been given the gift of speech by Aslan for their care of him after he was sacrificed on the Stone Table, maintained it now.

And the day he went with Lucy was different as well, different from when he had gone alone. She held onto his hand, tightly, as if afraid he would melt away as they drew nearer to the Table, staying silent. He couldn't really remember a time when she had been so quiet. It almost felt as if she were not even there, and he would have thought so if not for the death-grip she kept on his hand.

But they hadn't been entirely alone. The dawn stretched into late afternoon, and that into evening, but Edmund did not leave his spot by the Stone Table, and Lucy would not let go of his hand. They knelt on the ground in front of it for hours, and Edmund was reminded of the Calormenes, kneeling before their gods in the temples of Tashbaan.

Aslan arrived when the evening was beginning to dissolve into night, the sky a dull red and the world starting to go quiet. One moment he was not there, and the next he was, standing on the opposite side of the Stone Table and watching them with sad eyes.

Lucy broke her silent vigil then, rushing forward and throwing her arms around the Lion. She let loose a laugh that did not seem to match their environment, snuggling her face into his fur and hiding her grin of excitement.

But Aslan did not speak to her. He turned his sad eyes upon Edmund, and they seemed to see into the very depths of his soul, searching for something, though Edmund could not have said what. The Just King felt tears stinging at his eyes, and he quickly looked away, not wanting the Lion to see them.

"Why do you cry, child?" Aslan's gentle voice broke through his melancholy, and Edmund blinked up at him, wiping his hands under his eyes in embarrassment. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that Lucy was still there, but he could no longer see nor sense her. Now, it was just he and Aslan.

"I..." he could not bring himself to answer. The words he would say were lodged in his throat, stuck behind more tears threatening to fall.

"I am ashamed," he said finally, staring at Aslan's great paws rather than at the Lion himself. "This was my fault. It was my fault that you were taken to the Stone Table. I was a traitor. I betrayed my siblings and all of Narnia and...I never made up for it. You did, instead. Everyone else completely forgot, as though I had never done anything. The Narnians and my siblings have forgiven me, but...I don't understand why. I can't even forgive myself."

Aslan's eyes softened, and his gentle paws padded softly through the grass until he had walked around the Table and now stood before Edmund, gazing down at him. "Edmund," he spoke softly, and in that one simple word, his name, everything that the Lion might continue to say was conveyed. Edmund shook like a leaf in the wind, still kneeling in the grass before the Table, a small whimper escaping his throat. But the rest came anyway. "I have forgiven you. Everything that was done was in the past, and effects us no longer. Why can you not lay it aside?"

It was not phrased like a question, for Edmund had the feeling that Aslan already knew the answer, but he found himself responding anyway.

"I don't deserve it."

"Do any, truly? I told your siblings once that the past is in the past, and there was no need to speak of it any longer. I do not think you took my words to heart, as they did."

Edmund looked up then. "But why?" he demanded, shocked to find himself shouting. "Why?" that second time came out like a broken sob, and he was suddenly aware of Lucy's presence once again. He wasn't even quite certain of what he was asking.

And Aslan smiled. "Because I love you, and there was no act that you performed to make it so. Because your siblings love you. Because Narnia loves you, King Edmund the Just. Now, remember my title for you, and grant yourself mercy."

 

Edmund gasped awake, fully expecting to find Susan's arms wrapped tightly around him in comfort, but she was not there.

The events of only a few minutes prior flashed before him, and he sagged in his bonds against the Table. So, this had not been the dream. That was...unexpected. He must have passed out for a few minutes, but the Witch seemed to want him very much awake for this, her retribution.

Edmund felt, rather than saw, the White Witch getting closer, and forced himself to open his eyes, to look her in the face and remember the words that Aslan had spoken to him, not so very long ago. Yet it felt like an eternity has passed between then and now.

"I don't need to," Edmund hissed through clenched teeth, as the Witch raised her knife above his head, preparing to bring it down on his chest. He could hardly force out the words, but he did anyway, because, though he knew that she never could, he wanted her to understand. His body was racked with pain, and he knew that she was winning, but it didn't matter. So long as he said the words, that would somehow make them all the more true. "I don't need to pay that price."

The Witch stared down at him, unmoved by his words.

"Aslan already has."

A lion's roar, loud and powerful, split through the night, shaking the ground and the very foundations of the earth, as if summoned by Edmund's words. The Witch cringed at the sound, her grip on the knife loosening as she glanced around for the source of that roar.

A sudden hope surged through Edmund, and he found himself smiling despite the painful tug at his skin that this produced.

The few members of the Witch's Fell Creatures that had followed her to the Stone Table shrieked and lifted their claws to their ears in the hopes of lessening the sound, but even this did not seem to bring them the slightest bit of relief. As the Witch locked eyes with Edmund, he could see the real fear reflected in those cold orbs. He could not remember a time when he had seen her look so afraid, not even when he had revealed to her that Aslan was in Narnia, when he was her captive the first time, so long ago.

Edmund was not sure whether he should feel sick satisfaction at her fear, or pity her for what she would now face.

The White Witch, however, did not give him long to ponder. The knife, still raised above both of their heads, shook in her hands as she brought it down. Slicing through the air like a whip, the blade glinted in the moonlight, and Edmund could not stop the small mewling sound that hissed through his teeth.

He wanted to look away, did not want to witness his own death, but found that he could not stop staring. His eyes would not leave the awful, jagged blade, even as the space between it and his chest rapidly vanished.

Edmund did not feel the pain of a blade entering his chest, nor did he flinch as dark blood splattered across his body and the Stone Table. He did not see the Witch, looming above him, still breathing deeply and anticipating Aslan. He did not see the look of confusion in her eyes when Aslan did not appear to rescue his young, Just King.

The stone pillars behind him, and, behind that, the Fell Creatures and even the woods, seemed to fall away like a mist, replaced instead with great, tall waves that stood like a wall behind the Lion. Yet a small opening had appeared in that wall of waves, an opening just large enough for Edmund to step through, and, curiously, he found that he wanted to, desperately.

It was beautiful, what lay through that gateway. And though Edmund could hardly see it, he could feel it, calling to him, begging him to join in on the music filtering through that wall of waves.

This, he thought with no small amount of awe, was Aslan's country, and it was the most beautiful place Edmund had ever seen.

Edmund fought against the bonds once more, suddenly aware of them, but they would not budge. Aslan gave him a sad smile.

Edmund let out a mewl of frustration, and the waves vanished like they had never been, the Lion going with them. The stone pillars that stood guard returned, the Witch's Fell with them, and then he was staring up at the Witch herself. She was leaning over him, knife in hand, though she had looked considerably shaken.

Blood trickled from the Just King's lips, clogging his lungs. He couldn't breathe, pain lacing his entire body, and yet his only thought was for Aslan's Country.

Unlike Edmund, the White Witch had seen nothing, only heard. But it had been enough to strike fear in her heart, and she had not come this far to lose again. The boy was dying, but the blade had not killed him. She would not make the mistake of leaving him here to gasp out his final breaths with the risk that the little Queen might come and heal him again. She had meant the return of the little Queen's cordial as a torment, not a chance at hope.

And the cordial could not cure death.

The knife lifted high once more, and then she was bringing it down while her Fell began their chant again, though the eerie sound it evoked was this time unimagined. Edmund could see a flash of light as the knife glinted against the stars, and then it was moving too fast for him to see much of anything, his eyes filling with unshed tears and his legs beginning to convulse painfully.

"You have done well, my Son," a comforting and familiar voice whispered into the windy night, and then Edmund fell back, into darkness.

 

"Oh, I've been such a fool," Peter muttered aloud. Of course the Witch would want to join the battle. Of course her not being present during the fighting should have set off warning bells in Peter's head. For what did she want so badly that she would be willing to sacrifice winning for it?

"It's not your fault, Peter," Lucy said from behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around his midsection. The blood on her face had dried now, forming a thin, reddish brown stain down her face and neck. They had not had the time to clean it off, nor would Lucy have let them if her brother's life was in danger.

Oreius had taken them on his back when Peter announced they needed to go and find Edmund as quickly as possible. Centaurs did not take riders on their backs, finding it to be an affront, except in times of war, or when it was absolutely necessary. Still, this was the first time that Peter had ever ridden Oreius, and he felt extremely uncomfortable doing so.

"You couldn't have known she would plan something like this. Besides, Susan was with..." she trailed off then, face paling.

Her arms, pressed so tightly against his ribs, making it almost difficult to breathe, began to tremble with this new knowledge.

But then, with her unshakable faith in Aslan, something Peter loved so much about his little sister but could not bring himself to replicate, she said confidently, "Susan will be all right. And so will Edmund. Aslan will not abandon us."

Peter wanted to point out the obvious then, that Aslan had abandoned them at the beginning of this whole debacle, but wisely held his tongue. "I hope so," he said instead.

They reached the tent where Peter had left Edmund, thinking he would be safe, as quickly as was possible after leaving the Witch's castle, and Peter gulped at the sight awaiting them. Lucy's hand, clenched tightly in his own, tightened its grip until he could feel her fingernails breaking the skin of his palm.

The two centaurs that he had sent to guard the tent lay slain in the snow, one covered in blood from head to toe, face up. His body was barely visible beneath, and the stench that accompanied him made Peter lift a gloved hand to his nose and mouth. The Narnian's left eye had been brutally ripped out and revealed only a hollow cave within, long legs cut open and dismembered. His sword was a few paces away, not even bloodied.

The second centaur had fared even worse than the first, if it were possible. Lucy turned away at the sight, tears blurring her eyes.

There was a dog beside these, turned to stone with one paw outstretched in supplication, face a mask of pain.

With a sickening feeling of dread, he turned upon the last body lying outside the tent where he had ordered Edmund be taken care of.

Philip.

The sight of him made Peter's blood run cold. The Talking Horse lay on his side, long legs stretched out in front of him and stained with rapidly darkening blood, one clearly broken. He glanced up with wide, yellow eyes as they neared, jumping down from Oreius and rushing forward. There was pain in those eyes, pain and an intense sadness that chilled Peter to the bone.

Lucy knelt down beside the Talking Horse, her hands shaking as they struggled with the cordial.

Philip pulled back, barking out a sound of irritation. "I'm fine, Your Majesties. There is no time for that. Edmund...Queen Susan..."

"Shh," Lucy whispered, placing one hand under the Horse's jaw and tilting it up as a drop of the fireflower juice slipped between stubbornly clenched teeth. "Don't try to talk just yet. Please, Philip."

The Horse sighed, swallowing the cordial quickly and hurriedly continuing, "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I...could not save them."

"Tell us what happened," Peter demanded, voice quiet but firm.

"I...inside," Philip rasped, nodding towards the tent.

Lucy gave Peter a small nod to convey that she would stay with Philip, hands still carting through Philip's mane in a vain attempt to soothe him. He was clearly unsettled; a state in which it was rare to see the Horse, and that fact only made Peter all the more terrified.

The young king stood, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he stepped cautiously around Philip's prone form and into the dark tent. He was almost afraid to walk in; his feet trudged sluggishly, and he wanted more than anything to turn around while he still had the chance.

Images of Edmund and Susan, lying in their own blood on the ground, flashed through his mind, and Peter flinched, rushing the rest of the way into the tent.

Edmund was not there.

It was the first thing Peter noticed as his eyes did a careful sweep of the room. The hammock, stained with a bit of blood, lay empty, pressed against the tent flaps. There was a bowl of soup lying upturned on the ground beside it, the liquid spilling out into the dirt.

Peter suspected it would not be the only thing to stain the dirt of this battlefield after today.

Then he saw Susan.

She was sprawled across the dirt, arms thrown out in front of her as if she were shielding off an invisible enemy. A trickle of blood ran down her face from a gash at her temple. The only sign that she was alive the slow rise and fall of her chest.

Peter ran forward, squatting down beside her and shaking her gently. "Susan? Susan!" He turned towards the tent entrance. "Lucy, get in here!"

Susan moaned, eyes fluttering. "Peter?" she asked, voice too slow for his liking. "What...?"

Peter took Susan's hand, gently helping her to sit up. She moaned again, lifting a hand to her blood-stained forehead, and turned bleary eyes to Peter.

"What...?" she tried again, glancing towards Lucy, just entering the tent, and then back to Peter with the same look of confusion. Then she attacked, rushing forward and throwing her arms tightly around Peter with a desperation that could have rivalled Edmund after a particularly bad nightmare.

Peter hugged her awkwardly, a hand rubbing her back in gentle circles. She was shaking in his arms.

Susan hated war. She hated being put into battles, preferring instead to handle the more diplomatic missions. Hated the responses the carnage elicited from her. But they did not have time for this.

"Susan, you must tell me what happened," Peter demanded, ignoring the glare Lucy sent his way for it.

Susan stared at him for a few moments in confusion, squinting as if she didn't recognize her own brother, before her eyes took on a suddenly wild look, and she leapt to her feet without Peter's assistance. He stood as well, watching the way she swayed after standing, and reached out a hand to her.

"Susan, where is Edmund?" he demanded, a bit more insistent this time.

Susan reached for her bow and arrows, strewn across the ground, with a determination that was admirable; a determination that often took over her emotions when she was defending her siblings. "She...she took him. Peter, she took Edmund!"


	17. An Interlude: The Dove

The first sensation Edmund noticed upon waking was the warmth. Though he did not know why, it felt unnatural yet incredibly calming, and he allowed his eyes to sink shut against the backdrop of a blue, snowless sky.

Edmund awoke on a beach, a strange place to find himself, though he could not remember why that was. The warm sea air blasted against his hot skin, causing him to flinch and once again open bleary eyes.

The water lapped against the heels of his boots, his leather trousers sun dried and ruined with bloodstains, indicating that he had been lying in the sand for some time. The sand beneath him was warm, and a brilliant white, softer than the beaches at Cair, and Edmund found himself lying back in it and sighing contentedly.

He didn't remember how he ended up here.

In fact, he couldn't remember much of anything, and yet, this hardly bothered Edmund.

Disoriented, he stared out at the gentle waves of the ocean, only to find that their constant swaying did nothing to cure the raging headache splitting through his skull, interrupting his peaceful awakening.

A sudden thought came to him then, that it should not be his head that hurt, but something else. It startled him, however, that he could not remember what, exactly, that was, just that there was some sort of wound.

Squinting, Edmund sat up and tensed, expecting the stab wound in his stomach to...

Stab wound.

In an instant, memories of the last few years, of the last few weeks, came flooding back, overpowering his senses until he nearly blacked out, falling back against the sand.

Lucy...

Narnia...

The Wardrobe...

The Witch...

...Aslan.

Bolting to his feet with an energy that had been beyond him for some time, even as a King of Narnia, an energy that better befitted an excitable child, Edmund took in his surroundings, breathing heavily. The air filling his lungs was sweet, reminding him of Mrs. Beaver's cream pies.

He expected each breath to bring pain, now that he remembered the Witch's dagger had pierced his lungs on the Stone Table, and was surprised when it didn't. Instead, it felt refreshing, almost comforting.

He glanced down at the stomach that should have been steadily bleeding, and found that the skin was not even scratched, as pink and whole as the day he first entered Narnia, or perhaps as the day he first entered the world before Narnia; he didn't know.

The fine white scar from the battle of Beruna was gone, as well, as was the scar on his temple he had received fighting back Telmarines last year in Lantern Waste. The sores that had torn at his wrists and ankles over the past few weeks, while bound in the Witch's dungeons, had dissolved into creamy white skin; there was not even a hint of dried blood.

Edmund Pevensie felt better than he had in years, though he was not old.

It took him a moment longer to comprehend where he was.

The calming waves of the Eastern Sea had a lethargic effect on him, pulling him down into the sand and making him wish to spend the rest of his life here, not bothering to figure out how he had arrived here to begin with.

Behind him, where the shallow beach ended stood a mountain of a wave, enormous and crystalline, the wave itself moving only up and down, but not growing taller. There was, however, a gaping hole in this giant wave, just large enough for someone to walk through, and Edmund fancied that this someone must be himself, but he did not move towards it.

Through it, through the clear blue water, Edmund imagined he could see something else, a different world, which called to him seductively, hinting of beautiful mountains and valleys as far as the eye could see, peaceful landscapes that stretched on for an eternity.

Aslan's Country, and he was standing at the Door.

That could be the only explanation, though Edmund had never heard of anyone who had gone there and returned. There were some, among them Mr. Tumnus, who claimed that it was possible, that once, a very long time ago, it had been done, but Edmund wasn't sure that he believed the rumors.

Which meant only one thing; he was dead.

Surprisingly, the realization didn't bother him as much as Edmund had always expected it to.

Instead, he felt an inner peace that he had not felt for some time; at least, not since before the Witch's reappearance in Narnia. The feeling began at the pit of his stomach and travelled outwards, warm and full, like he felt after a good spring's feast.

It made him want to run, want to race through these sands because he knew, somehow, that he would never grow tired here, that he could keep going along that stretch of beach forever, and the wave would always be waiting for him.

So he ran. His boots scuffed along the shoreline, throwing loose sand into the air and splashing at the water. Susan would be appalled; his boots were no doubt ruined by now, along with his trousers, but Edmund found out quickly that he hardly cared.

He could laugh at the thought. Instead, he kept running, enjoying the feel of breath filling his lungs so quickly, so effortlessly.

If he ran fast enough, the events of the last few days, of the Stone Table, were merely a blur behind everything else, and, here, that was all right.

Time did not exist in this place, and Edmund did not know how long he kept running until he finally sank into the sand, running his fingers through the grainy substance without thought.

"Edmund," a low, familiar voice broke through his musings, and Edmund spun around, only to see the Great Lion, only a few paces away from him. His great, yellow paws indented into the sand, his wide eyes gentle and searching.

And Edmund laughed. It had been so long since he laughed; in fact, he couldn't remember the last time, though he fancied it was back at Cair, when he was still with his siblings, rather than a prisoner of the Witch. This laugh was carefree, childlike, and it rose from deep in his belly, a further warmth rushing through him at the action.

He ran forward, feet tripping through the sand, and yet somehow managed not to fall before reaching the Lion's side, and coming to an abrupt halt, mere inches from the lion's mane, he stared in awe. It seemed then that an eternity had passed since Edmund had last laid eyes upon the Great Lion, as if he were greeting an old friend from another lifetime. "Aslan."

Aslan laughed as well, pawing the sand as Edmund rushed to him, and for a moment, all of Edmund's worries of the past few weeks vanished, and there was only Aslan, and sand, and Aslan's country, just on the horizon.

When he had collected himself, Edmund frowned. "Aslan..." he began, but the words quickly tittered off, as Edmund wasn't sure what it was he wished to say. Finally, "Am I dead?"

Aslan smiled at him, but it was not his usual smile, full of mirth. This one held a certain melancholy to it, a sadness that Edmund did not like seeing. "This is not my Country; it is merely the Door through which to enter it. You are in a state that is neither death nor life, Edmund, and there are two choices before you. But you cannot remain at the Door for long."

Edmund stared at the Lion, licking suddenly dry lips. "Then...you mean, I can go back to Narnia?"

"Or you could continue through the Door into my Country," Aslan explained, "but if you do so, know that it is not possible to return."

Edmund pivoted towards the Door in that wave, the gaping hole that had been calling to him ever since he woke up on this beach. It seemed to widen now, beckoning him, and Edmund took a hesitant step towards it.

He remembered his thoughts while lying on the Stone Table, waiting for death, remembered the pain that wracked through his body as he lay there, waiting for the final blow, glaring up at the White Witch, the object of his nightmares, with a defiance that he was not sure was entirely own, remembered praying to the Lady for Peace. Peace, not justice, and, in a way, his prayer would be answered if he walked through that Door.

While he had lay dying on the Stone Table, he had longed for this, longed for peace and Aslan, and this was his answer.

"S-Should I?" It all felt so real suddenly, where a moment ago he had been carefree and happy.

Aslan was silent, and yet, Edmund heard him as he if had spoken. That is your choice to make, Edmund. I cannot make it for you.

Then another thought occurred to him; more of an image, which flashed horrifically before his eyes before he could stop it. An image of Lucy sobbing, clinging to Susan as the two of them stood over an unmarked grave, of Peter, taking out his anger with a sword.

No. He could not. Aslan's Country was a place of eternal peace for those who found it, a happy, perfect place where Edmund knew he would be satisfied to wait a lifetime for his siblings to join him, but the thought of leaving them...

He knew that one day, they would be separated by death, in some way or another. That eventually, each one of them would make their way to Aslan's Country on their own.

But the thought of leaving them now, while the Witch tried to retake control of Narnia and his siblings needed to stay together, needed to stay strong...where moments ago it had felt right, had felt comfortable, now it felt only...wrong. Selfish, even, and his cheeks burned at the thought of what he had been so close to doing.

Something in the air seemed to shift with Edmund's choice, unconscious though it was, and Aslan nodded with approval.

They stood together in silence after that, watching as the Door inside that strange Wave sealed shut, before Edmund found the courage to speak again.

"The Witch has returned to Narnia," he said suddenly, still staring at the Door, and ignoring the Great Lion's studying gaze.

Aslan's eyes saddened, the bright light inhabiting them a moment ago dying out. "I know, child," he said softly, and Edmund turned to face him, a look of surprise etching across his features.

He supposed it should not have been so shocking, that the Lion knew of the Witch's return. But that was not what now shocked Edmund Pevensie.

"But then...why haven't you returned to fight her? Why have you not returned to Narnia?" Edmund asked.

Even as he spoke, he hated that he was questioning the Great Lion, had endeavored never to do so, since the Lion had sacrificed himself for Edmund. And yet the words slipped out, before he could stop them. Unlike his older siblings, Peter in particular, Edmund never doubted Aslan's will, even when he left them for long periods of time to face trials on their own. Because Edmund knew, as Lucy did, that Aslan need never be doubted. That he would always come through for the four of them, should they need it. And yet, this time, the doubt that crept into his voice could not be held back.

"Do you trust me, Son of Adam?" Aslan asked then, voice calm yet oddly conflicted, eyes staring intently into Edmund's own, searching for something there. The sadness was back then, the exhaustion, and Edmund could see now that Aslan was hiding something, something great.

And, though he couldn't have explained why, the question brought tears to Edmund's eyes. "Of course."

Aslan sighed, the sound so exhausted and full of pain that Edmund flinched at his own words, now sounding like an accusation, and ringing guiltily in his ears. "Then know that all things shall be revealed in time. The Witch shall not prevail; even now, her time in Narnia draws to an end. The magic used to awaken her cannot sustain her forever, as she was in her previous life, and is weakening, even now. She knows this, and it is why she moved so quickly to kill you."

Edmund supposed that, in any other case, he might have been bothered by the casual mention of the Witch killing him, but found that, now, it only left him feeling numb.

Aslan started to walk away then, back towards the Sea, great paws stomping through the sand, and Edmund rushed after him, filled with confusion.

"You must return home now, Son of Adam," Aslan said finally, large eyes staring out at the calm waters, and there was a sudden sadness in his eyes that scared Edmund. "It will be a difficult journey; one of pain and sorrow, and I cannot promise that you will leave it entirely unscathed. But there are some things more you must do in Narnia still."

Edmund swallowed hard. "Will you come with me?"

And Aslan faced him then, a gentle chuckle in his voice. "I am always with you, Son of Adam, even if it seems that you are all alone."

Edmund felt Aslan's warm breath against his face then, heard the gentle words, "Wake now, Edmund Pevensie, and remember to look to the dove."

Edmund blinked at that, was about to open his mouth and ask what these last, strange words meant, when Aslan breathed on him a second time.

And the world exploded in a blinding flash of white light, even as the words echoed in his mind.

Look to the dove...


	18. Desperate Times

Ailyan's mate, Nymara, had always wanted pups.

It was something that they discussed, at first, though in hushed tones that could not be overheard by Maugrim, who would have certainly jumped at the idea, or anywhere that would be overheard by the White Queen.

They both knew that to bring pups into the world, a world cursed with over one hundred years of winter, only to be taken and trained for the service of the Witch, or worse, drowned, would be a cruel act.

When she had died, Ailyan had never once thought of finding another mate. Nymara had been his one and only, despite what was said about wolves and their packs. There would be no other, and, though the White Queen was dead, there would still have been danger, in bringing any pups into the world. Narnia, where the wolves had been exiled to the North and West for their loyal service to the Witch.

No, such a world was not one to bring pups into, Ailyan had reasoned.

And he still thought so, still couldn't fathom why other Talking Beasts would dare to bring pups into the world if they had a choice.

He had not, in all that time during his exile, nor in the time afterwards, truly thought about the mother who had brought those foolish Sons of Men and Daughters of Eve into Narnia. In fact, he doubted that many creatures gave this much thought, for the four Kings and Queens had come at an age not fully grown, but no longer newborn pups.

They had, if the stories were to be believed, simply appeared one day, in the Western Woods.

These, strangely enough, were the thoughts that passed through Ailyan the Wolf as he watched.

These had not been the thoughts he had always imagined he would be thinking, at this time. He had imagined himself standing proud, beside the White Queen, triumphant and getting justice for what had happened to his poor mate, when the little High King had so cruelly cut her down.

But this was not like those imaginings. This was nothing like he had expected, and it left a terrible pang of guilt in him, a conscience that screamed inside him, sounding all too much like Nymara.

The Queen had held the traitor down, clothes torn and body bleeding past its farthest restraint, and, though Ailyan should have been rejoicing that one of the enemies of the White Queen was fallen, that the Fell Creatures would finally be able to crush the monarchs who had killed their Queen and bring back the reign of said Queen for an eternity, he could not.

All he could think of, as the traitor lay broken and bleeding on a stone table meant for traitors, was the sight of his own mate's body, killed during the Battle of Beruna, years ago. Of her wishes for pups, and of the ever-present thought that this boy king was nothing more than a human pup, too young. Too much like the boy that Ailyan had kidnapped and brought to his death for the sake of his Queen.

How many more would die?

He tried to shake such thoughts from his mind. They were not loyal to the White Queen, and were not loyal to his mate, not truly. This was justice. Justice for her terrible death.

Killed by the High King Peter, during the Battle that had claimed the Witch's life.

And because she knew the sacrifice that Ailyan had paid for that battle, and the service he had done her by helping her return to life, the White Witch had offered to allow him to come to the Stone Table, as an honored guest, to watch her receive her own justice, her own revenge.

The boy king's brother, the pup dying on the Stone Table at the Witch's hands.

Ailyan had almost felt satisfied, at the invitation, much to his shame. The boy was not the High King, but he was his brother, and the little High King would know the grief that he had felt, once upon a time.

And that thought took him for some time, and for some time into the torture of the human pup while he lay on the Stone Table, Ailyan saw nothing but his mate.

Nothing but the sight of his mate, cut down by the blade of a Son of Man, blood matting her fur even as blood stained the smooth skin of the human pup. Every cry from the pup was a strike against his brother, her killer.

The other Fell Creatures standing in the shadows, watching, even if they had not been invited to do so by Her Majesty, were just as pleased, he knew, though not for the same reasons. Though some, he acknowledged, may have lost loved ones during the battle, it was petty hatred that motivated most of them to watch. Petty hatred and loyalty to the White Witch. Or perhaps fear, that she might notice their contempt and punish them for it.

But they were not satisfied, as Ailyan finally was. They craved even more, more blood, and more death, from the little King who had sought to exile them during his still young reign. And the White Witch had promised it to them, the moment the boy traitor was dead.

It was when the Witch stabbed the pup, bound him as Ailyan had not been there to see her bind the Great Lion, that he finally understood. Finally saw the mad anger in her eyes, and knew that this was not the same White Witch who had conquered Narnia all for herself and managed to keep Aslan at bay for a hundred years.

Oh, she was certainly the same Witch, wore the same body, and had the same magic, but this time around, her goal was not to conquer Narnia once more. Nay, this time she wished only for one thing: she wished revenge upon the traitor boy.

But this pup had not killed Ailyan's mate; his brother had, and Ailyan had no quarrel against the pup lying on the Stone Table. He was hardly a full grown human, unable to even fend for himself as the Witch tore away at him, and Ailyan recognized those screams, remembered them all too well from his time in the Witch's dungeons.

He had felt guilty, then, and the fact that he did not now...worried him.

She wanted revenge, for he could see it in her eyes, the same revenge he had seen in his own reflection for some time now.

She had been planning this since she had awoken.

And after weeks of listening to the pup's cries, deep in the dungeons, and wondering what he had done to seek her wrath, Ailyan did not think he could listen to the sound for much longer.

Not when it reminded him so crudely of his mate's pained whimpers, as the life went out of her.

He had been there then, too, had stood by and done nothing while she lay there in pain, knowing there was nothing that he could do.

But Ailyan's mate had died with her fangs sharp and ready, prepared to lay down her life for the White Witch. Prepared to die in service of the One True Queen. She had had defenses, a way of protecting herself, even if she was no match for High King Peter.

This boy was not the one he sought justice against; he was not High King Peter.

The pup king had nothing to defend himself, and, as much as he loathed his pup brother, Ailyan could not, in that vulnerable moment, bear the thought of another suffering the pain he had suffered, standing by, unable to do anything to save the one he had loved.

Ailyan ran, as fast his four paws would carry him, though he knew he would never make it in time. But he had to try.

He had to get help for the human pup. His mate would have wanted him to. She would not have approved of torturing and killing pups to begin with, would not have approved of Ailyan's kidnapping the Calormene boy, especially not for the dark arts that they had needed him for.

 

The man who was known only as "The Bounty Hunter" in Calormen, where his name had been long forgotten by all but one, simply because almost all who had cared to learn it were now dead, trudged through the disgusting terrain that barbarians called Narnia with a deep set frown.

It did not help that the ground had, in the brief time he had been here, gained so much snow that every step he took submerged his legs to the knee, quickly soaking his trousers. Silently, he damned Narnia and its demon lion to the fate of a thousand deaths at the hands of Tash.

At least the Calormenes had the good sense to live somewhere warm and dry, where one could not get lost so easily.

Yes, the Tarkaan who had hired him had been correct. He would never willingly stay here, even if the Tarkaan's bastard were not found and his sister's life was forfeit. He was not an idiot. He would find a way to get her back without the loss of her head, if he failed in his mission.

To further prove the idea into his mind was the fact that the Narnians could not even keep control of their own kingdom; it was tearing itself apart at the seams. Even now, the bloody battle raging below was a sign of how inspired the Tisroc was to wish it taken by those who could keep it properly.

To think that he would ever agree with anything the Tisroc said.

And just the knowledge of what he had come here to do, of what he was willing to sacrifice to regain his sister's freedom, nearly made him sick.

Some small part of him wished this was still about a boy who had simply run off.

That would have been easier to explain when he tried to reenter Calormen.

"Rivil!" the Archenlander Captain shouted, and the bounty hunter turned to face the man, face a mask of his true feelings as he responded to the fake name he had assumed only days earlier. "I want you on the South side with Arv and Arven. Make sure none of the Fell Creatures make it past you there. They are in full retreat, now."

The bounty hunter nodded, about to ask how he was supposed to tell the difference between the Fell Creatures and Talking Beasts loyal to the Archenlanders, when a hyena, eyes wide with madness, leapt up behind the Archenlander Captain and tore the chainmail from his back with its mighty claws. The sound of ripping flesh hit the bounty hunter's ears, and he turned away in disgust.

The brothers, Arv and Arven, barely men themselves, and too young, the bounty hunter thought, for war, stared down at the mutilated body of the Captain as the hyena turned away towards another prey, ignoring them, thankfully.

Of course, it didn't matter that they were too young for war; one of them was just about the age of the young Calormene boy he had been sent to find, ad this was all that mattered.

"Well, you heard him then," the bounty hunter snapped gruffly in their direction, "to the South edge."

The boys nodding silently, dutifully following after him with hands on the hilts of their swords.

The three encountered few opponents as they made their way to the South edge, a fact for which the Bounty Hunter was grateful, as his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Besides, it meant that there would be less witnesses to what he was about to do. And the less witnesses, the better.

He did not wish to retrieve the bastard child only to accosted by these creatures, calling upon their god to smite him.

When they reached the southern edge, however, he slowed. The cliffs above, a rocky, jagged formation that any unskilled swordsman could be lost in, would provide a perfect cover for what he was about to do, and the distraction of battle would cause few to miss the three of them for some time. Behind him, Arv pulled to an abrupt stop as well, Arvin slamming into him a moment later, and letting out a loud curse that nearly revealed their location.

The bounty hunter held up a hand, gesturing for them to be silent and wishing that, when he came up with the plan to infiltrate the Archenland army, it had been with a better intention than playing nursemaid.

"What is it?" Arv demanded, as Arvin rubbed his sore nose and muttered something unpleasant about his brother under his breath.

The bounty hunter raised a finger to his lips, careful not to roll his eyes. "Quiet," he hissed, and, mercifully, the boys fell silent.

It wouldn't do for this to be overheard, after all.

The bounty hunter's hand crept down to the hilt of his blade, and the boys followed his movements with their eyes, before turning to look at the surrounding boulders. It was nearing dark now, the battle against the Fell Creatures about to sink into its second day, and they squinted, obviously not perceiving any near threats.

Arv's eyes widened. "What do you see?" he hissed, leaning close enough that the bounty hunter could feel the youth's breath upon his neck.

And the bounty hunter spun around, the hilt of his sword burying itself into the chest of the surprised boy, whose eyes widened even as he gasped for breath and sank to his knees. His brother let out a cry of horror, tumbling forward to check on his brother without a thought to his attacker.

The younger boy knelt down beside Arv, crying out even as salt-stained tears slipped down his cheeks, before turning an icy, accusing gaze toward the bounty hunter.

It was a look the bounty hunter had seen many times, one that had once haunted him, after a hunt.

He no longer felt such guilt over it.

This was the only way to retrieve the bastard child, and that was the only way to get back his sister.

"You," the bounty hunter answered calmly, swinging his sword toward the younger brother.

The boy quickly brought up his own blade in a paltry defense, stumbling to his feet. He even managed to fend off the bounty hunter for a few minutes, a truly impressive feat in his current position.

Not that it mattered. He would soon follow his brother to the Land of the dead, where Tash would greet him with an iron sword.

The moment the bounty hunter realized that Arvin was about to abandon all sense and call out for help, despite the fact that this edge of the battlefield held more Fell Creatures than allies, he struck, his curved blade slamming into Arvin's chest and sending him stumbling backward. Blood curled down his lips, and he fell to his knees as the bounty hunter withdrew his blade.

Arvin, relatively smaller than his older brother, let out a few small gasps rather than dying quickly, as his brother had, eyes glaring accusingly up at the bounty hunter before he went still.

The boy's body was still disturbingly warm as the bounty hunter grabbed it, hoisting it over his shoulder. It was heavy, heavy with the weight of the dead, but the bounty hunter had hefted worse in the mines outside Tashbaan.

He could bear such a burden for a few more hours.

It would make the walk through the snow much more difficult, he knew, and if anyone saw him they would be rather suspicious.

But from what he understood of blood magic, this was the only way to get what he wanted. And he would not return to Tashbaan empty-handed, not with his sister's life on the line.

Even if it meant she would only continue to be a liability to him, if there was one thing he truly understood, it was that one did not abandon family to their fates if such a thing could be helped.

The bounty hunter continued his silent trek through the canyon, avoiding being out in the open as best he could, and not bothering to glance back at the battle to see how it would turn out.

It meant nothing to him, the outcome. Well, it might mean something, if the White Witch, somehow still alive despite the little High King's assurances, years ago, that she had died, won. Then, he would wish to escape this accursed land even more quickly than if the young High King won.

 

The girl lifted the bottom of her veil to brush at her eyes, sighing. It had been a long day, and all she wanted now was a good night's rest, but of course, it would be many hours until that wish came true.

Well, rest was not all that she wanted. She wanted her brother back from the barbarian lands of Narnia, but she knew that was too much to hope for in this moment. In all truth, he might never come back, and even if he did, she feared that her life would still be forfeit.

"You there!" one of the Tarkaan's guards shouted suddenly, and she snapped to attention, dipping her head as a show of submission. The guards, though slaves themselves, were still a step above the house slaves. And that was what she was now. A simple slave to a mighty Tarkaan notoriously known for sleeping with his slaves.

It was not a comfort, that knowledge. Even the knowledge that her brother would enact swift retribution, should the Tarkaan try anything, did not comfort her.

Her brother had been gone for years, and she had thought him dead in those mines.

That had all changed one day, when the Tarkaan's bastard had run off, disappeared. She only wished that she could have joined the boy then. But she had been far too frightened to do so. She knew the punishment for escaped slaves, and it was not a merciful one, not even if the slave was the bastard child of their master.

After that, she had been locked away in the cells beneath the Tarkaan's mansion until the bounty hunter could be bought from his own prison, from the mines where he was supposed to languish away until his death.

A punishment for his crimes against the Tisroc, many years ago. (May he live forever, though she certainly didn't want him to.)

Somehow, the Tarkaan had already known of their relationship, had already known who she was despite the years she had spent ensuring he didn't.

Her brother had come to the mansion soon after that, and she knew that the Tarkaan had kept her all along for this moment, for the chance to use her as leverage against a man who had spent ages making certain that all other leverage was destroyed.

She had not been sent back to the cells after that, but forced to resume her normal work in the mansion. And she was no longer young enough to escape the attentions of her master, as she had once been.

"His Lordship the Noble Tarkaan wants some bread and fruit brought to his chambers. You will see to it," the guard ordered, a smug look on his face. He had once been a stable hand, but had, quite by accident, saved the Tarkaan's life during a battle. He took great pride in his position as a guard, and tended to lord it over the rest of them.

Especially her.

One day, she intended to slap that ugly smirk off his face. Not that she ever would, but she had such plans for most of the people in this house.

Instead, she answered "Of course," her head bowed, not daring to look at the guard as she curtseyed and hurried away to the kitchens.

The food was made quickly, as the Tarkaan's slaves were all terrified of any punishment he might give them, and none of them argued when the girl gave the order. She carried it on a silver tray that was probably worth more than the boy her master was so desperate to find.

The master's chambers were on the top floor of the sandstone mansion, the only room with a view, but what a view it was.

The desert out one window, and the Tisroc's (may he live forever) palace out the other.

Before, when she was but an unknown slave and not the only leverage against her brother worth having, she would come up there sometimes just to look at the view out to the desert, for though the palace was beautiful, it did not interest her. It was the desert that she longed for. The desert where her brother was being kept, the desert which so few slaves escaped across to freedom, but did escape.

She reached the Tarkaan's chambers quickly, having no desire to be around for long, and gave a quick knock to announce her presence.

"Come in," the voice inside boomed, and, taking a deep breath, the girl stepped inside, hunching her shoulders and keeping her head lowered, as was proper.

The Tarkaan stood with his back to her, staring out the window to the desert. "The desert takes two days to cross, when one wishes to do so quickly."

She wasn't sure how to respond to that. Was this a trick? "Yes, O Noble lord," she said calmly, setting the tray on the nearest table and bowing her head, hoping he would release her quickly. "So it does."

The Tarkaan grunted at this response. "How would you know? You have never crossed it, and those who have are only escaped slaves and mad fools, none of whom return to Carlormene alive."

She bit her lip, lowering her head further in a sign of supplication. "Of course, O Noble One, you are correct in saying I would not know. Forgive my ignorance."

He waved a hand dismissively. "It matters not, girl. It is the truth, and your brother the hunter of men has spent longer than that on his journey for my bastard son. Do you know what this leads me believe?"

She swallowed hard, delicate hands clenching into fists. "My brother has always been one to honor his arrangements, O Noble Tarkaan," she answered, through clenched teeth, and hoped that he could not feel the anger radiating off of her.

The Tarkaan frowned. "I believe that he has left you here, and gone off to hide to claim his freedom that I so foolishly allowed him. I should have sent someone to ensure he was doing what I told him to once he left the city."

She shook her head vehemently, desperately. Not because she had such faith in her brother, but because she knew that, the moment the Tarkaan failed to believe her, her life would be forfeit. "He is my brother; he would never do that."

"Wouldn't he?" and now the Tarkaan sounded almost amused. He leaned forward suddenly, grasping her chin in his hand and forcing her to meet his gaze. His cold brown eyes raked over her, and she felt heat flaring in her skin. "I believe he might think a pretty girl enough to sway me, to satisfy me enough to leave you alive, despite his failure."

"Would it, O my master?" she whispered, the words barely whispering past her lips, and yet she was unable to keep them back.

His cold eyes narrowed.

She shivered, though it was not from any cold, jerking away from his touch, even as she could still feel his vile gaze upon her. Her hands shook as she attempted to steady herself, leaning against the table on which she had deposited the Tarkaan's little tray. Hoping that he would dismiss her soon, before she was sick.

Her brother would come back for her. She hadn't seen him in years, didn't know how he had changed during his sentence, but she knew that one thing for certain. They two were all they had left, and they would never abandon each other.

The Tarkaan seemed oblivious to her current state, turning his gaze back to the window and gazing out it as if nothing had transpired.

"Tell me girl, what is your name?" he asked casually, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

"Kareema, if it pleases you, O Noble One," her breath hitched as she spoke, and she glanced nervously down at her shaking hands.

"A beautiful name, girl," the Tarkaan said, though she could hear the bitterness and barely concealed mocking in it. Still, he did not turn around again. "Worthy of a Tarkeena, not a slave girl such as yourself."

"I wasn't always a slave girl, O Great One," she answered, choosing her words carefully so as not to offend. In her experience, Tarkaans were an easily offended lot, and she knew that her brother had already stepped over the line by not returning speedily, despite the words she had bragged about him.

Words that she now regretted, considering everything that had transpired since.

When the little brat, for he was, in Kareema's mind, a most contemptible little creature, had run off, she had seen her chance. After years in the Tarkaan's service, knowing nothing of what had become of the brother she had cherished beyond all else as a child, she had found her chance at freedom.

There was nothing the Tarkaan would not do to get the boy back, and, surely, if she produced a surefire way to find him, the Tarkaan would grant her one request.

Her freedom.

Of course, she had thought that it would be easy for her brother to find the boy. It seemed, now that her first plan had failed, she would have to take matters into her own hands, and the very thought made her body shake with unstoppable tremors.

The Tarkaan turned to face her, smiling. "And yet, you were never a Tarkeena. Tell me, does the occupation of your esteemed brother shame you?"

Kareema shook her head. "We grew up as commoners. He did what he had to, as did I, to survive, and we have both made our penance with the Great Tash for it," she shrugged.

The Tarkaan raised an eyebrow at this. "Oh?"

Kareema swallowed hard, realizing she might have overstepped with those last words. She bowed her head, hoping it made her at least appear contrite. "If it pleases you, O Generous Master, I have had a trying day and wish to retire so that I might better serve you on the morrow."

Once again, his eyes slowly trailed down her form before he responded, "Of course, sweet child. Go, and may Tash the Inexorable shine upon you in your slumber."

Kareema dipped her head, and then hurried away, not daring to turn her back on the Tarkaan before she left the room. Tried not to think about the leering way in which his eyes followed her, or what she was planning.

 

It was hours later, when the moon was already deep in the sky and the sun had disappeared into the sandy horizon, when the shout rang out through the mansion, the slaves and the Tarkaan's loyal wife woken from their beds by the noise.

The loyal wife groaned, muttering something rather unpleasant under her breath about the Tarkaan, before rolling over and drifting off into slumber once more.

The slaves were not so lucky as to be able to ignore their Tarkaan, and were pulled from their beds, dragged down into the courtyard. It was a place of unpleasant memories; the whipping post standing in the center attested to that fact, as did the faces of the menacing guards.

Moments later, the Tarkaan appeared, flanked by two of his guards, face hot with rage. He somehow managed to appear dignified even as he ran into the courtyard, glaring at each of the slaves in turn.

"Where is she?" he demanded, his cold voice, one that most associated with pain, echoing loudly in the otherwise silent night. "Who amongst you saw her escape?"

The slaves were silent, exchanging nervous glances but none daring to breathe a word.

The Tarkaan sighed, as if dealing with petulant children. "The slave girl, my leverage, if I cannot find her, I will promise a quite unpleasant experience for you."

One of the slaves flinched, a young girl, younger than the one who had vanished into thin air, despite the guards surrounding the mansion, and stepped forward. "I..."

The Tarkaan stalked forward, until he stood just in front of her. "Well? You know what has become of her. Speak up and you will not be harmed."

"I..." she worried her lower lip before whispering in a voice that was caught by every ear, "She spoke of escaping. So that, if her brother had failed, he would not need to come back for her. That is all I know, O Kind Master, I swear on the blood of Tash."

The Tarkaan was silent for a moment. And then, spinning to his guards, "She is gone across the desert! Find her, you fools, or I will have your head for hers!"

And then the slaves were allowed back into their beds, though none slept after that.

The whispers of the slaves, at the fact that such a shame had befallen this noble house twice in one year, echoed throughout the mansion long after the Tarkaan and his men had gone after the girl. To lose a slave like this would be embarrassing for any noble lord; to lose two would ruin the Tarkaan's reputation, a cruel reputation that he had spent many years maintaining.

Many of these servants were quite pleased to see it continue to deteriorate, even if it was at the expense of the young lady, and, in that spirit, prayed to Tash that the girl made it across the desert before she could be dragged back in irons.

 

The battle was far behind him now, the sounds of war echoing off into the wind, and so when the bounty hunter heard a howl, loud and close, he froze, the burden he carried suddenly far more so.

It did not bode well with the bounty hunter and he moved faster, the dead Archenlander's blood dripping down his back like sweat.

A bush rustled behind him, and the bounty hunter spun, unsheathed sword still covered in blood. The grasslands should have made it impossible for anyone to sneak up on him, especially.

Nothing jumped out to take a bite of him, and yet the bounty hunter knew that something was there.

He knew enough to realize that this was not simply nerves, his hackles rising in alert, and he slowly lowered the dead body of the Archenlander to the ground. It thumped into the grass, and then the Beast appeared, as if out of thin air.

A wolf. He could not remember if the Archenlanders had said Wolves were Fell Creatures or Allies, and he really didn't want to waste time finding out. Slashing his sword at the animal to warn it back, he snarled, "Do you speak, Beast?"

The wolf only stared up at him with wide, brown eyes that seemed almost...sentient. Pleading. He did not speak, as the Bounty Hunter had oft heard the wild creatures of Narnia could do, and he wondered if this one was indeed just a dumb animal. In that case, it was likely following him at the scent of fresh blood, and, though he knew little about wolves, he knew enough about jackals to know that it was likely more were about, hiding in the tall grassland.

Grasslands...it took him a moment to realize that, where this path had been a frozen wasteland moments before, it was now a tall grassland. And wasn't that odd.

Then, the wolf let out a low, warning growl, and the bounty hunter reached for the hilt of his belt knife instinctively, other hand still clutching his sword in a defensive posture.

"It would not be wise to attack me, Human," the wolf snapped, its enormous jaws making the bounty hunter's mouth go dry. The wolf's voice was of a guttural quality, low and wild, and the bounty hunter found that it suited his kind perfectly. "I mean you no harm."

"And why is that?" the bounty hunter shot back, calculating how quickly he could throw the knife before the wolf lunged at him.

"You are not an Archenlander," were the wolf's first words, and the bounty hunter wondered if all these talking beasts were both dimwitted and barbaric.

"Of course not," he retorted, and tried not to sound offended.

The wolf smirked, if it could be called that, and finally whispered, "I need your help."

The bounty hunter blinked at him. "My help? Indeed. Run along and find your Witch, Creature, or your King. I have no wish to help you, and you have nothing to offer me in return."

The wolf stared at him for a full minute before, in a voice that was almost pleading, answering, "You would have my undying gratitude, and, I suspect, that of many others, as well."

The bounty hunter snorted at that. "I have done far less than a favor for far better a reward." And he lugged the body back over his shoulder, thoroughly disgusted with the fact that he had let the beast distract him, and started walking again.

"If you are after what I believe you are after, you will not find it without my help. And I can offer help."

That gave the bounty hunter pause. "And what is it that you believe I am after?" he asked finally, coldly.

The creature bristled. "You carry a dead body from the battlefield, across frozen wastelands, to the East. It is not so difficult to figure out. The Stone Table is a thing of great magic, and I am just returning from there. I will take you there, if you will but swear to help me."

The bounty hunter eyed him distrustfully. "And what is it that I seek, Wolf?"

"Powerful magic. Just as I do. For, when I left the boy, he was not long for this world."

The bounty hunter's ears perked up at that. "What boy?" he repeated, a sudden suspicion snaking into his gut. Then, "I am come to trade this boy," he motioned to the lifeless boy callously thrown over his own body, "For that of a boy I was sent here to find. He was...turned to stone by your White Witch. But I was told it could be done."

Yes, the man with the magic pool had told him such, on pain of death.

"And so it must," the wolf answered, "but only if you come with me now. The Stone Table, as I said, is a powerful thing, but there are other powerful things within this world, and I do not imagine they will answer to myself, nor to one who wishes to drag a boy back to a land of slavery."

"Then how are you a help to me?"

"There is a magic there, that not even Aslan can undo. If you truly wish to bring back this boy that you are so intent on finding, it will be there that you must go, if indeed there is a cure in Narnia at all. The Boy who lays dying on that Table can help you, and you do not know where you go. I can lead you to him."

"He is a sorcerer, then?" the bounty hunter demanded, suddenly hopeful. Though the Calormenes detested Narnian magic and their demon, most were not foolish enough to disregard the demon's power.

The wolf's lips thinned. "He can get you what you seek, if you come now."

"I do not believe in this demon or his magic," the bounty hunter hedged, voice rough and scratched around the edges. "And why are you so intent on bringing me to this boy?"

The wolf made a motion that was the closest thing to a shrug the bounty hunter could imagine. "You seem to believe enough to trek across frozen wastelands. Come; we must hurry."


	19. The Awakening

Oreius and the Queens, as well as the Narnian commanders, though with a bit more subtlety, watched the high king, face pinching with worry.

Oreius did not think he had ever seen the High King this scared, or perhaps a better word might have been distraught, not even when they faced the giants of the Noth for the first time.

Perhaps during his very first battle, when he fought the Witch alone, but even then, even when they thought Aslan was dead, he had not looked so...defeated, as he rushed out to face her. Angry, yes, but this was something else entirely. There was a grim determination in every word, every movement, but there was pain there too, and Oreius worried that his High King would not be able to fight the rest of the battle because of his worry for his brother.

They stood in the very same tent where King Edmund had been taken, a badger quietly healing Queen Susan's forehead, the wound she had received when the Witch attacked her, while Susan sat in the hammock Ed had been lying in, biting back tears.

Lucy stood beside her brother, shoulders tense as she plotted alongside him, perhaps not quite so wrecked as her elder siblings due to her unshakable faith in Aslan. He would come for them. He would fix this, just as he did every time. She knew it, though it scared her that her siblings did not. That Peter seemed to have lost faith in Aslan a long time ago.

Still, she was the most composed of her siblings.

"Archers, on the Western Edge with Queen Susan." He glanced at his sister, evaluating the damage to her head, before amending, "Watch out for her. Oreius, I want you wih the cavalry. We may have won last night, but the Witch is still out there, and she still has...Ed." Peter's voice broke on his brother's name, and his hand clenched around his sword. "Lucy, do you still have your cordial?"

Lucy nodded, patting the little bottle where it lay against her side, and then, because she felt that something else should be said into the sickening silence, "We'll find him, Pete, before she can do anything."

Peter gave her a curt nod. "You're with me. We ride for the Stone Table before Jadis can..."

Lucy nodded, knowing better than to question those orders, though Susan looked as though she were about to before thinking better of it and reaching for her bow, which still lay abandoned on the ground of the tent.

"I'm going with you," she said then, resolutely pushing aside the badger's assistance.

"Su..." Peter began, turning and eying her tiredly.

"No," Susan argued. "You aren't going to be able to keep my away this time, Peter. Edmund's my brother, too, and...even if..." she bit her lip, lifting her chin in a way that had scared many foreign diplomats and loyal Narnians alike for several years now. "I want to be there, with you."

And Peter nodded, not meeting his sister's eyes and running a tired hand through filthy blond hair. "Very well. General Kodnack," he turned to the little Archer, "You will lead the Archers on the Western Edge."

The little creature nodded, turning on his heel and marching away with bow and arrows already slung over his shoulders.

"And if we encounter the Witch?" Oreius asked calmly, with a bit more trepidation than Lucy was used to from him.

Peter hesitated only a moment. "Kill her, if you can." And then he strode from the tent, Lucy and Susan hurrying to follow, though Susan, it must be admitted, with some more dignity than her younger sister.

Peter helped Lucy onto his horse, and then climbed up behind her, wrapping one arm around her waist while the other ripped his sword from his sheath. And then they rode, faster than Lucy had ever ridden before, the break-neck pace taxing her limbs as she leaned back into her brother.

"To the Stone Table, Philip," he told the trusty horse, whom Lucy had fed the cordial to only an hour before, and the horse grunted before hurrying to follow the order, body pinched with as much worry for the Just King as his own siblings were.

Lucy was aware of others behind them, aware of Susan's shout to the archers as she left the tent and climbed atop her own steed, of the sounds of battle beginning once again without prompting, of it raging around them as they rode silently through it, though with a much smaller intensity than the day previous, and the early morning dew falling on the ground. Lucy stopped at that, turning and looking at the ground beneath the horse's hooves once more in surprise.

Dew. On fresh grass.

She was just about to point this out to Peter, to tell him that this was surely a sign that Aslan was helping them, that he was finally coming, when her words were halted by the appearance of King Lune, riding up with just the same speed. Peter pulled up, though he looked rather irritated to be doing so, but Susan did not, riding around them silently, and gesturing for the soldiers following to do the same.

"High King Peter," King Lune greeted calmly, not his usual joyous self in the field of battle, but did not wait for Peter to acknowledge him before saying, "we've managed to beat back the Witch's forces as far as the Great River, but the Witch herself and the forces that departed with her are still nowhere to be found."

Behind Lucy, Peter gritted his teeth, knowing exactly where the Witch and his brother had gone. "She is at the Stone Table. We must hurry and meet her there, before she harms my brother. Are you with me?"

King Lune paused for only a moment, meeting Lucy's eyes. Whatever he found there seemed to convince him, for he nodded and gestured to the dozen men behind him to turn their course.

And then they were riding again, so fast that Lucy feared several times that she would fall, as they struggled to catch up to Susan, who had set the pace even faster, and Peter's strong yet shaking hand on her hips was the only thing holding her down. Philip strained underneath their weight and the pace that Susan had set, body sweating despite the cool climate surrounding them, but did not ask Peter to slow down.

Indeed, some part of Lucy knew that he would rather die than ask such a thing. Especially when Edmund's life was on the line.

She clutched desperately at her cordial while they rode, for, though she remained firm in her belief that Aslan would save them, that he would keep Edmund safe in his paws until they arrived, still she feared what had already happened to him at the Witch's hands.

When they finally found him, would he be turned to Stone by the White Witch? Would she have hurt him horribly, as she had in the dungeons?

Peter, as if sensing her troubled thoughts, tightened his grip around her, and this time it was he reassuring her. "We'll find them, Lucy."

She nodded against his chest. "I know," she whispered hoarsely. "I just worry how he'll be when we do."

Peter shook his head, chin against her forehead. "He'll be fine. I know it."

Only one of them sounded convinced of their words.

 

"Where is it you are taking me, Wolf?" the bounty hunter demanded, stopping in his tracks and letting the body of the dead boy fall to the ground with a soft thud. He did not trust this wolf, did not trust that it would not lead him into danger, far away from any of the Men back at the battle.

At least they were Men, and, though not entirely civilized, not talking beasts.

The wolf let out an exasperated sound, not turning around. "We have a little way to go now," he informed the bounty hunter as he pranced across the forest floor, weaving in between these damnable trees effortlessly.

The Man was a hunter in another life, before the mines; he knew well tracking, and yet he feared that he would not even be able to find his way out of this twisting forest without the beast's help.

Perhaps this was all a ruse, and the animal sought to murder him on that Stone Table, rather than help him.

He didn't know why in Tash's name he had followed the wolf this far, other than the vague worry that the possibly rabid creature may very well attack him if he did not continue to do so.

As if sensing his thoughts, and the bounty hunter was suddenly struck with the horrible thought that perhaps the foul creature could sense his thoughts, the wolf turned around and growled lowly at him.

"It is not so far now."

The bounty hunter rolled his eyes, moving faster. "I was not worried on that front."

The wolf let out a snort and kept moving, tail swishing along behind him. The bounty hunter kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, just in case. The woods they travelled through, woods that the wolf claimed led straight to this vaunted Stone Table, were dark, murderous. He had heard legends, as a child, of the trees in these forests of Narnia that had risen up and strangled Calormene invaders, long ago.

The bounty hunter shivered, tossing the dead body of the boy over his shoulder rather than continue to drag it along the forest floor. He thought he heard an approving sound from the wolf at this action, or perhaps it was from the very trees themselves.

And this table of stone that the wolf spoke of was heard of in Calormene, whispered to be the source of the Narnian's magic.

It was said that the Demon Lion had died on this Table, and come back even more powerful than before. Powerful enough to kill the Witch.

The one time Calormene and the demon Lion seemed to be on the same side of a matter.

And if this boy really was there, well...The wolf's words had left him uncertain. He did not know if the boy the wolf claimed lay dying on the stone table was the one he sought, or another, who could help him find what he sought.

Frankly, this dark magic was beyond him.

But if there was even a chance, a hope, that this was the boy that he was looking for, wasn't he honor-bound to try? And even if it was not, and the boy lived through the grace of his demon lion, there was still a chance for the bastard to be returned to him. The wolf had told him so.

The bounty hunter snorted at his own stupidity, and the beast sent him a worried glance, but did not halt.

And in that sorry state of mind the bounty hunter found himself standing at the edge of a clearing, the Stone Table looming before him. The wolf stopped abruptly, and he nearly slammed into the damn creature, before pulling to a halt as well as his eyes caught sight of that Table.

He had not known what to expect, after hearing the wolf's tale, but he was reasonably sure that the wolf had not thought the boy they had come to find would already be dead.

The bounty hunter, cursing the demon lion and the demon witch of Narnia under his breath, rushed forward, dropping his load into the snow next to the immobile wolf. His feet moved sluggishly, for, after coming this far, he was not tired, only riddled with disbelief, as he ascended the steps up to the broken table.

The body upon the Stone Table was cold to the touch, devoid of clothes and lying in a pool of its own blood. A wound the size of the bounty hunter's fist graced the boy's stomach, his blood running down in lines over thin ribs.

But even with the paleness of death upon the dead boy, the bounty hunter knew that he was indeed too pale to be the bastard of the Tarkaan who had sent him. And though the bounty hunter had not entirely been expecting to find that boy, the realization that this one was already dead and therefore useless to him made him stagger, clutching the broken table until his knuckles turned white with anger.

The wolf, as if in a trance, finally blinked up at the Human. "He's dead," he breathed softly.

"Yes," the bounty hunter said stiffly. "He's dead, and therefore useless to me." He turned back to the wolf, now ignoring both dead boys. "How do we invoke the power of that demon lion, to bring back the slave boy I was sent here to find?"

The wolf swallowed hard. "We were too late," he said, even softer than before, and the bounty hunter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, we were. Now, the boy I came for?"

The wolf raised glassy eyes to meet the bounty hunter, and, in that moment, he knew he was doomed. Either the wolf had lied to him, or what he had promised could not be done without this boy having lived.

He was useless as well, it seemed.

He turned back to the dead boy lying on the Stone Table, and swore loudly. The wolf flinched as the Man reached for his sword, hackles raising in fear.

 

It had not been as difficult to find the Witch as Peter had assumed it would be, nor taken quite as long, for, quite horribly, she had come to them before they could come to the Stone Table. Strange, for, from what he understood of the situation, the White Witch had run off with Edmund, abandoning the rest of her soldiers. He would have thought that she was still at the Stone Table, reveling in her victory over his brother, rather than having returned to keep fighting.

And yet, here she was, just beyond the battlefield, climbing down a cliff, with three dozen Fell Creatures surrounding her, a sickening smile on her face as she met Peter's gaze and ordered her troops forward to protect her. The White Witch had stopped, despite the men flowing around her, one hand gripping tightly to her wand, which cast eerie blue shadows upon the snow.

Edmund was not with her. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen.

Susan was the first to see her, pulling up her horse and firing two arrows from her bow in rapid succession before Peter had even noticed Jadis. "What have you done with our brother, Witch?" she demanded heatedly, and the Witch laughed in response.

"Kill them all, this time," the Witch shouted to her Fell. "Nothing can stop us."

Before him, Lucy leaned forward, breaking Peter's hold on her waist and sliding down from Philip. "I'll find Ed," she hissed up at him, before disappearing into the melee, and Peter found it very difficult not to curse as she vanished before his eyes.

King Lune shouted to his men, words that were merely roaring in Peter's ears as he patted Philip's side. "Are you ready?" he asked softly.

Philip snorted in response, and did not wait for a command before cantering forward, butting into whoever dared cross their path. It reminded Peter, briefly, of the last time he had fought the Witch.

She had not possessed so much of her power, back then. The grass had completely covered their battlefield, rather than remaining frozen as it was today. And Aslan had been there to save them, when Peter had barely been able to keep her at bay.

No, Aslan was not coming to save them this time, after truly defeating the Witch. No, instead it had been Edmund whom the Witch had dragged away, and done Aslan knew what to him, considering that he was not here, now, for her to use as leverage against the clearly larger Narnian and Archenlander forces...

Peter felt a cold chill up his spine, his stomach tying in knots as Philip rode on.

Behind him, he could hear Susan shouting at the Witch as she continued to volley arrow after arrow toward her, ignoring the Fell Creatures coming toward her as the rest of the Narnians quickly dispatched of them.

Two of these struck the Witch, and bounced aside with a flash of white light that sent crippling fear into Peter's very core, even as he neared her, raising Rhindon defensively.

This was his fight, and the Witch seemed to know it, for still she stood in the midst of the battlefield, grinning up at him maniacally. Lucy and Susan might have argued differently, that they all should have the chance to destroy the Witch who had been responsible for so much of their suffering, so much of their pain in the last few weeks, but he knew.

Fate, or Aslan, had given him another chance to fight the White Witch, and this time, beat her.

He had stood by since her return and watched as she destroyed Narnia, dragging it into another icy winter and taking his brother from him as Peter could do nothing but watch in horror. The Witch had taken back her stronghold, had tortured Ed, had taken Lucy captive and hurt Susan...

And Peter had stood by and done nothing. Had simply let it happen because he knew that, with Aslan abandoning them, there was truly nothing he could do. He had barely been able to fend her off, during their last duel. How he had been forced, in the end, to defend himself with naught but his own shield until Aslan arrived to save him.

He had learned since then, and he wanted this, more than he had ever wanted anything. Because no one touched his siblings, not the Witch, not the Telmarines, no one.

And as much as he wished Ed were here to witness this, as much as it pained him to imagine where Ed could be, he knew he couldn't think about that now. He could only act, while he still could.

He jumped down from Philip before reaching her, sword clashing with her wand before he had even touched the ground, and the Witch let out another sound of laughter before spinning and throwing him off balance.

He cried out, steadying himself on the cold, hard ground, and barely brought Rhindon up in time before she would have turned him to stone.

Tortured thoughts of whether of not she had already done this to Edmund wafted through his mind, but he forced them aside. He could think of nothing but the battle, until it was won.

It was the way Edmund would have fought, with his brain rather than his anger, and Peter knew that it was the only way he would defeat the Witch.

Jadis looked startled by the determination she saw in his eyes, and, in that moment, he was able to beat her back a few steps, though she quickly managed to regain herself. She attacked him again, bringing her wand about to strike his sword before letting loose another blast of pure, blue light, forcing Peter to fly backwards to avoid it.

Behind him, he could hear Susan and King Lune shouting out more orders, Lucy screaming his name, and then the Witch had advanced on him again, their weapons clashing louder than those voices, and Peter forced himself to drown out the distractions of the battle around them.

"You know, he was amusing, to the last," she taunted then, and, try as he might, Peter was not able to keep his emotionless mask at those words. He growled, throwing himself heatedly into the battle once again, and Jadis laughed. "Delirious though, I think."

"You'll never touch him, or anyone else again," Peter hissed angrily, surprised to find that his anger was beating her back, that she seemed surprised by this sudden burst of energy from him, and gave into his anger over what this creature had done to his family since they had entered Narnia completely.

He got angry during battle, especially when his siblings were involved. Edmund called it his greatest fault, always chastised him for it, even after a battle was won.

Edmund was not here.

The Witch's eyes widened as she found herself suddenly backed against a boulder, her Fell Creatures quickly dying around them due to Peter's superior force. Her wand now her only defense against Peter, and she raised it toward him, muttering an enchantment under her breath that turned Peter's skin cold.

He let out an inhuman snarl, beating her wand aside with a strength he didn't know he possessed, and it fell to the ground between their tangled feet. Rhindon pressed against the Witch's heaving breasts as she realized she had been disarmed, and her eyes lifted to meet her opponent's angrily.

The world stopped around them. Peter thought he could hear Susan shouting for him to stop, and in the next moment convinced himself that this was his own mind, or perhaps the Witch's, playing tricks on him, for Susan would never tell him such a thing.

And then, with an anger ten times the amount that he had faced in Cair's dungeons, facing that vile hag, Peter drove Rhindon into her stomach, thinking of what Lucy had told him that horrible day, when Aslan had died on the Stone Table with her knife through his ribs. Rhindon cut through her tough gown and equally tough skin with difficulty, and Peter winced as he shoved it deeper, deeper, until he could feel it slam against the boulder behind her and watched as blood began to gurgle from her lips.

The Witch let out a horrible scream that stilled even those furthest away, still locked in battle, and the light snow in the air froze in place. "NO!"

Her blood flew through the air, splattering against Peter's chainmail and sword, as well as her own battle gown. Peter ripped the sword from her belly and she hissed in a deep breath of pain, falling, defeated, to her knees. Silently, he wiped it on his own chainmail, watching her thick blood drip heavily onto his clothes.

"You'll never hurt him again," Peter repeated then, his voice soft, though the brittle fury on it was enough to be recognized by everyone watching.

He moved away, somewhat disgusted by the anger that had killed her, the very same anger that had killed that hag, for, although he had wanted her death, he had not wished for it to be like this. He'd wanted it because it was the right thing to do, not this.

And he was afraid, in that moment, of what else he would do to her, if he did not stop now.

He kept walking, backwards, for he did not dare turn his back on her while she still breathed.

No one moved, all standing in still shock as they watched the Witch's demise. Lucy's shock perhaps the greatest of all, for she had remained convinced until this moment that Aslan would return again and kill Jadis. The fact that he had not, that it had been Peter to deliver the soon-to-be-killing blow, rocked her.

The Witch just kept heaving in air, falling forward on her hands and knees in the quickly warming grass and letting her head fall between her shoulder blades as her blood continued to soak the ground beneath her.

"Aren't you going...to finish the job?" she hissed through clenched teeth after Peter, and he froze, staring down at her. A bit of that familiar rage washed through him, but he forced it back down. If he gave into it, he knew it would make him no better than she. "I at least gave that courtesy to your brother."

Peter swallowed hard. It was not within him to leave any creature suffering when he could alleviate that, not even an enemy, though he thought that, this time, he could gladly find exception. But he didn't know what to say in response, didn't know what to do.

His anger still boiled through him, keeping him warm despite the still cool temperature around them, and he wanted nothing more than to do just that, to take off her head with Rhindon while she still breathed to mock his brother's fate.

"Am I supposed to believe that the death you gave him was merciful?" he asked finally, anger tinting his words, try as he might to keep it down. The words sounded wooden on his tongue, but, by the look of shock on the Witch's face as she brought her eyes to meet his, they were worth the stinging guilt in his heart.

For he very much doubted that the death she had given Edmund was as painless as her own.

And then the guilt was too much, and he stumbled forward, raising Rhindon to end her suffering, for, though he had no doubt she deserved it, he would not stoop to what she had become.

Two things happened at once, things he would never forget for the rest of his life in Narnia, however short that may be.

"Peter!" Lucy and Susan screamed at the same time, and then the Witch was scooping up her wand from where it lay beside her, using the last vestiges of her strength to throw it at him, fully intending to bury it in the heart of the boy who had so stubbornly stood against her, as his little brother had once attempted to do.

And, this time, it had been an emotion that killed this little king. Pity.

Didn't these Sons of Adam ever learn?

Peter only knew in that moment to duck before he suffered the same fate as she, and so he did, slamming into the ground beside her and not bothering to watch as the wand speared into someone behind him, praying desperately that it was none but another Fell Creature.

He could not remember, however, the last time he had prayed to Aslan, and it was that thought that kept him down in the snow, though he was uninjured.

As Peter slammed against the snow, his chainmail rattling with the impact, his own blood splashing, red against white, it was as if a heavy burden flew off him. As he went down, he bit hard on his lower lip, and blood began to flow from it, gushing down his chin.

Thus far, he had been fighting with his anger, as he always did during battle, despite Edmund's warnings that it would one day be the death of him. Now, it washed out of him, flooding from his body at the sight of her blood, leaving him only exhausted and blinking back tears at the thought that even this had not saved Edmund. His anger would not save Edmund, would not satiate him, no matter what he did to the Witch to avenge his brother, to avenge Narnia.

He had fought in anger against the White Witch once before, after seeing her kill so many during the Battle of Beruna. Anger over what she had done to Edmund, over seeing her so easily turn his Narnian troops into stone, and he had lashed out accordingly.

She had nearly killed him then, because of it, because Peter, by himself, with only his anger to help him, had not been enough to kill her. Peter, High King of Narnia, had not destroyed the Witch, just as he had not done so now, clearly, as she had still managed to nearly kill him in turn.

It was Aslan who had beaten her in the end the first time, not Peter.

Aslan.

Aslan, who hadn't appeared since the beginning of this whole debacle. He was strangely silent, no matter that he had never abandoned them in times of need before. No matter that Lucy still believed he wouldn't, this time, either.

Even if Peter had given up on him the moment his brother had been taken from him by the Witch once again.

But that didn't mean He wasn't there.

Peter remembered then, something Lucy had told him, the first time Aslan had left the Pevensies to rule Narnia by themselves. She had been so wise, even then, too wise for her young years. So much wiser than he, and he could remember thinking that he should always heed her word, after that.

He didn't know when he had forgotten that thought.

"How could he just abandon us like that?" Peter had asked, angrily swiping at a vase. "We don't know the first thing about running a country. We don't know the first thing about..."

"He didn't abandon us," Lucy pointed out, as if it were the most logical assumption in the world. "He's always here, with us. Obviously, I mean, otherwise he would not have been able to return from the Stone Table, would not have known of the stone creatures at Jadis' castle, would not have been able to..."

There had been more, so much proof it made Peter's ears turn pink with shame for ever doubting the great lion, but he couldn't remember the words now. That didn't matter.

Aslan did not abandon them.

He was always there, even if it wasn't in the flesh.

Peter had just been too foolish to recognize that until now, lying a pace away from the White Witch, who was still, somehow, horribly alive, crawling forward on her hands and knees.

Aslan was here. Aslan was always with them, when they needed him, in their hearts.

And Aslan had been in the heart of Narnia long before the Witch had overtaken it.

"Aslan," he whispered hoarsely, and the Witch's eyes widened.

"Don't speak that name!" she cried out, sounding more in pain than she had been when Peter stabbed her.

Peter pushed himself up, half-turning to face the Witch, and she stopped in her movement. There was a determination in his eyes then that scared her, a determination that boded ill for her own unlikely survival, and she looked like a frightened animal.

She was defenseless now, having foolishly tossed her wand at him, thinking to kill him as he had done her.

"You don't have power here anymore, Jadis," Peter shouted, climbing painfully to his feet. He knew that she heard it, above the whipping wind and the snow still cascading...

The snow had stopped.

Peter smiled, sending a silent prayer of thanks to Aslan for bearing with him this long before jumping to his feet and reaching for the Witch's own wand, still lying on the ground beside him.

It hurt to the touch, even as his hand closed around it, and a horrible feeling of wrongness settled over him. He almost dropped it back to the ground in that moment.

"Narnia doesn't belong to you," Peter went on. "It never did. And neither did my brother."

The Witch's eyes widened, and she released a curse that had not been heard since the dawn of Narnia with what sounded like the last of her breath, a curse that chilled Peter to the bone. The wand in his hands began to grow hot to the touch, so hot that it scalded his hand in seconds, and he threw it away in horror. The winds around the pair of them twirled tighter, nearly suffocating him, and the sky darkened.

He dropped the wand, watching it fall into the grass as if from a great distance, heard someone scream again, realized it was himself.

The Witch smirked at this, a string of curses erupting from her mouth that made Peter flinch, that caused blood to begin dripping from his nostrils, and it was all he could do to lift his palms to his ears in a half-hearted attempt to block out the noise. How was it that, even dying, she still possessed such power when he could not remember her having it the first time around...?

The Witch continued, undeterred, even when Susan appeared, out of nowhere, beside Peter, and shot one of her legendary arrows towards the Once-Queen, it burying into her back and tossing her hard into the dirt once more.

"Susan!" Peter shouted, though he wasn't certain what the point of doing so was. Wasn't certain what was even going on.

But the Witch, impossibly, did not die, and the spell continued, wrapping them both up in its spell until Peter was certain they would die here.

Then, almost as foreign as the spells the Witch uttered, a sound came from Peter's lips, a word that he hadn't spoken in faith in some time, and, indeed, he was rather unsure why, exactly, he said it now. He knew that his faith had returned, but the reason behind his uttering that word was lost on him. He said it more like a desperate prayer than the powerful spell it seemed to be in that moment.

A word that caused the White Witch to scream in agony, curling tightly into a ball and glaring up at Peter with bloodshot eyes. Her curse stopped, and he could suddenly breathe freely again. Blood flowed from the Witch, and the air around Peter stilled.

A word that caused Lucy, just moving up beside him, to pause and flash her older siblings a brilliant smile. She reached out, taking Peter's bloodied hand in her own, and repeated it.

A word that caused Susan to glance at her brother in surprise, wondering when this change had come about. She certainly hadn't regained her faith in Aslan from this little episode; if anything, she had only agreed with Peter more over what he had been saying, in the past weeks, that the owner of that name had truly abandoned them.

"Aslan."

"Don't say that name!" the Witch screeched again at him.

"You've lost, Your Majesty," Peter whispered over her, and, in that moment, he couldn't feel the victory. Couldn't feel satisfaction at her death. He only saw the Witch, lying in the snow as she clutched to her breast, her icy white frame covered in her blood and Peter's.

And Jadis looked up at him, eyes wide and full of fear, but there was no defeat in her eyes. Not like there had been when Aslan destroyed her the first time. Only hatred.

"It doesn't matter," she hissed, and her words sounded so bitter, so angry, that he almost pitied her, in that moment.

Almost.

"I got what I came for. Your precious traitor-brother is dead." And she laughed, a sickening, wild sound that reverberated off the canyon walls, a sound that Peter couldn't stomach. Behind them, Susan let out a sudden cry, and then she was moving, faster than Peter could stop her.

He vaguely heard himself calling out to her, calling her name, but it was too late.

There were times when Susan the Gentle was not gentle. He had seen it happen, though not often, and only when her siblings, or her country, were in danger, and Susan would suddenly become a force to be reckoned with, the Queen to fear.

A second arrow sprang from Susan's bow, embedding itself in the Witch's chest even as she glared up at them, and Jadis sagged, falling back against the snow. Her wide, grey eyes blinked sightlessly up at the sky for a moment, before they slid closed.

And then. The Witch Fell, and the wand beside her, too far away to reach but too close for anyone's comfort, exploded.

Well, shattered, sparks of bright light exploding throughout the canyon. Peter turned away, unable to look at the sheer brightness of it. The world screeched to a blinding halt, and, for a moment, he was sure that this would be different from when Aslan had killed the White Witch. That something had irrevocably changed, and they would all pay a terrible price for it.

But, in a moment, that feeling was over, for the White Witch was well and truly dead.

When Peter looked again, the wand had turned to dust. A pile of dust, lying in the grass beside its dead mistress.

And though nothing was all right, for her final words had boasted of Edmund's death, Peter felt some peace at that sight.

 

"You tricked me into this," the bounty hunter spat accusingly at the wolf. "Brought me here to kill me?"

The wolf scampered back, raising its head and letting out a pleading howl, perhaps calling for its brothers, and the bounty hunter snarled in disgust, moving forward and taking a swing at the creature that would never find its mark.

A bright light cracked through the twilight; a flash of lightning, and then the world toppled, and the bounty hunter found himself on his knees, clutching to the stone steps before the table in terror as the world shook violently. The wolf yelped, moving back into the protection of the trees, where the world didn't seem quite as shaky, and the bounty hunter found himself wishing to curse the foul creature once again.

The shaking of the earth did not stop, and the bounty hunter wondered if Tash had been awakened by his own desire to dabble into dark magic and was punishing him, or if the world was ending. He supposed one was as likely as the other.

The wolf jerked its head towards the Stone Table, and the bounty hunter lifted his head as well, slowly following the beast's gaze with a hammering heart.

And as the Bounty Hunter watched in shocked silence, the dead boy on the broken table lifted one bloodied hand, took a deep, gasping breath, and fainted.

Unconscious, but very much alive.

"Impossible," the Bounty Hunter breathed, echoing the wolf's unspoken sentiments.


	20. Chapter 20

Peter stood over the body of the White Witch, panting hard, and Lucy knew by the glaze in his eyes that he was going into shock. She had seen this happen to her brother only once before, after his first kill of that wolf, Maugrim.

Victory tinted with horrible loss.

She rushed forward, throwing her arms around him as she had on that fateful day, the day they had managed to save Edmund from the Witch, and clung to him, scared to find that she was shaking as badly as he.

It was horrible this moment, sickening for a reason Lucy wasn't quite certain she understood, only that it _hurt_ , and that Edmund still wasn't with them, after all this.

In the next moment, Susan had joined them, though her words were more practical than Lucy's mere comfort. "Peter," she whispered softly, so that the Archenland soldiers and surrendering Fell Creatures around them could not hear. "Peter, we have to find Edmund."

Peter stiffened at these words, and Lucy remembered the Witch's taunting, that Edmund had died by her hands, that it was what she had come there for, whatever that meant. All she knew was that Edmund was not amongst the Witch's soldiers, and she wondered at that, for surely the White Witch would want to show off what she had done to him, after all this time.

She shivered, turning to Susan with wide eyes. Did Susan believe, as she did, that he was not truly dead?

And yet her hope was squashed in the next moment by Susan's words.

"If what she said was true, and Edmund is..." Susan bit down hard enough on her lower lip to draw blood, "we have to go to the Stone Table and retrieve his body."

Lucy sniffed, hating those words. "She could have been lying," she pointed out then, a little too hopeful for her words to sound believable. "He could still be alive, hidden somewhere."

Peter glanced down at her, one arm still slung around her shoulder, and gave her a sad smile. "Yeah, Lucy's right. She could have been," he said, in a very unconvincing tone, like the one he had used when she insisted during their first year in Narnia that, if Father Christmas was real, and so were dwarves, then surely there must be leprechauns as well.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Lu, you still riding with me?"

She nodded, wanting nothing more but to bury her head in his chest and wake to find that this was all a nightmare. Edmund had to be all right. No, she didn't care if he was all right. He simply had to still be _alive_.

Susan's gaze softened as she met Lucy's. "We'll find him, Lu." And then she turned, bow slung over her shoulder, looking every inch the warrior queen that she hated being, and trekked over to her horse, climbing atop it shouting their plans to King Lune.

King Lune dipped his head. Clearly, his own curiosity over what had happened to Edmund was bitten down, for he offered to, "clean up here," while they continued on. Susan gave him a grateful nod, and then Peter was pulling Lucy toward Philip once more.

Her legs felt like lead as he swung her up onto Philip's back, and, though she knew Edmund's Horse enjoyed letting his mane free, she clung to it with a ferocity that scared even her.

Philip, however, did not seem to mind, as antsy as she to reach the Stone Table and find out what had happened to the Just King. He waited impatiently for Peter to shout orders to the Narnians to follow King Lune before climbing atop Philip, and then the horse sped off after Susan, not once looking back.

"When we get there, she might have left someone guarding the table," Peter whispered into her ear. "Leave him to me."

Lucy leaned back into her brother's arms, nodding. "I have my cordial," she said softly, hoping that she sounded reassuring.

Peter sighed, but didn't answer. They both knew that a drop from Lucy's cordial, nor a fountain of it, could cure death.

This time, Philip's fast pace wasn't too horrible, though she was sure that she would still have aches from it tomorrow, and she blinked, wondering how she could be thinking of such things when her brother's life was in so terrible a danger. She closed her eyes, whispering a prayer to Aslan and wondering when she had last done so. When any of her siblings had last done so.

That thought frightened her, another quickly joining it. Perhaps Aslan had not come to save them because she had not wanted badly enough for him to do so, because Susan and Peter had simply given up on him so quickly.

"Aslan," she mouthed, for some reason not wanting Peter to hear the words, "Aslan, please. Let him be all right."

And in that moment, a calmness swept over her, a peace that wasn't her own, and Lucy opened her eyes, content that Edmund would be, when they found him.

She wouldn't believe the Witch's taunts until she had seen Edmund's body with her own eyes, Lucy promised herself.

The journey, despite their fast pace, was slow, and more than once Lucy found herself wishing they had simply ridden the eagles to the Stone Table, rather than going by horse. Then she remembered that the eagles had still been very much engaged in battle when she'd left them, and were likely unsure where they own monarchs had now gone.

They did not halt in their race to the Stone Table, even after the horses started stumbling, for Philip refused to stop, and Susan's Horse was equally as worried for the fate of the Just King. Behind them, several of their soldiers; a badger, a hound, and a centaur, though not Oreius, followed, the badger eventually climbing onto the centaur's back when his little paws could take him no farther.

And then they reached a clearing that Lucy was so very familiar with, perhaps even more so than Dancing Lawn, though, if her brother was missing, she would have rather found him there, amongst the dryads, than here.

Lucy was sliding down from Philip before they even made the clearing, aware that Peter was shouting her name, yelling for her to wait for them, but she ignored him, one hand clutching the dagger Peter had returned to her after rescuing her from the Witch's dungeons while the other held even more tightly to her cordial.

And she ran, unaware of anything happening around her, until she stood at the foot of a cracked Stone Table, staring up in horror at what lay on it.

Despite Peter's earlier fears, there were no guards surrounding the Stone Table. Evidently the White Witch had been confident in her victory, and had not found the need for them. Confidence had always been a weakness of hers, Lucy realized then.

A body, mangled and bloodied beyond recognition, dried blood splattering the Table around it, as it lay inside the cracks, was the only evidence to the Witch's claim. Dirt and grime covered it where blood did not, clothes ripped away...as Edmund's had been. The hair was so full of dirt that Lucy could not decide if it was blackened because it was indeed Edmund's or if it had been dragged through the mud so long that it had turned black because of it.

The face...she did not recognize it as her brother's face, for it was covered with dried blood, bloated and sallow with death, the nose twisted horribly, as though it had been broken several times before the White Witch saw fit to kill this poor soul, despite the obvious torture he had gone through.

She remembered Jadis' words to Peter, that she had given Edmund death in the end as a mercy when Peter had looked as though he would not kill her, and her insides twisted with a rare anger. How dare she even compare what Peter had done to her with this?

The eyes were already shut, and, though she wanted to know the truth, had to know, she could not bring herself to pry apart the swollen eyelids to ensure that the color beneath was indeed brown.

There was no true sign that this even was her brother, save that the body looked to be about the right size, from what she could make of it.

But even as denial swept through her, she knew there would have been no reason for Jadis to execute someone else on the Stone Table when she had Edmund within her grasp. When she had been wanting to kill Edmund for so long.

A rebellious part of her insisted that, if this was indeed her brother's body, she should be able to recognize it, destroyed though it had been. Something about him should be familiar, and not simply a cold corpse that might have once held her brother's face.

Lucy felt her hands shaking even as she unstopped the cordial, climbing onto the Stone Table and hearing her siblings come to a halt behind her. Susan's scream of horror at the sight of the body did not even bring her out of her terrible shock as she pressed the cordial to the boy's lips, hoping against hope, begging with every fiber of her being for Aslan to save Edmund.

A drop from the cordial fell into the dead boy's mouth.

The world stilled, waited.

Nothing.

Lucy let out a cry, tipping the bottle forward a little so that another drop fell, waiting with baited breath even as she felt Peter's strong arms pulling her away, felt Susan reaching for the cordial.

She let out a cry, attempting to twist away, but Peter's grasp was firm as he pulled her toward him, whispered in her ear that it was over, that nothing could be done, and that she had to _stop_. The words made no sense to her, and she fought against him, needing to be by that body, needing to make sure that it wasn't Edmund's, that it couldn't possibly be.

Peter would not let go of her, and, before she knew what was she doing, Lucy found herself taking her anger at the Witch out on him, her fists slamming into his chest as she finally let the tears fall.

Where was Aslan? How could he have allowed this to happen, after Peter had used his name to kill the White Witch?

Perhaps her faith in him had been misplaced, as Susan seemed to think. Lucy could think of no time in their short rule of Narnia when they had needed him more, and yet the Lion had not come. And as much as she wanted to tell herself that he would come in his own time, that everything would work out as it always did and that someday, the reason he was not here now would make sense, as she always did believe, even when her siblings did not, Edmund was dead.

Lucy slumped against Peter's shoulder, not crying, though her mouth remained open in shock. No sounds came from her from a long time after that, and she was only vaguely aware of Susan whispering sweet, utterly meaningless words of comfort in her ear, of the soldiers behind them wrapping the dead body in Peter's cloak, of Peter's strong arms clinging to her at least as tightly as she now clung to him.

She could feel Peter's chest rumbling against her, knew that he was speaking though she could not seem to hear the words, only knew them to be somber and words that she would rather not hear, and then he set her down, and her feet wobbled against a broken step in front of the Table as Peter moved forward. She watched sightlessly as he bent down next to the body, touched the forehead and flinched, as though the bloody wound there had rather been inflicted on him.

Susan stepped forward, for they all seemed to need to touch the body to know that it was real, that Edmund was well and truly dead, and then she moved back, as if the very thought of remaining here a moment longer was repulsive to her. Susan's eyes shown with tears, though she would not meet either Lucy or Peter's gazes.

The world stilled again, and Lucy could only stare at the dead body on the Stone Table. The first to grace it since Aslan himself had died here at the hands of the White Witch.

The first to die since Aslan's death had destroyed the blood magic here.

Aslan would return. He had not let such sorrowful events happen before, and he would not do so now.

"That is not my brother," Lucy said softly, words a shock even to herself, and Peter turned to her in surprise. Susan still didn't move, only staring as tears leaked down her face.

"What?" he asked, and she wondered if he really hadn't heard her or thought his youngest sister had lost her mind, his own eyes filled with tears.

"That is not Edmund, Peter. It isn't him." She hated that she sounded like a petulant child, for every part of her being was screaming that this was not Edmund. It couldn't be. The peace she had felt since that desperate prayer to Aslan was still there, even as she glared down at this body. This was not her brother.

And Peter and Susan shared a look over Lucy's head, but said nothing.

"You have to believe me," Lucy went on, a little louder this time. "I know-" her voice choked, "I know that isn't my brother!"

* * *

The boy ate in silence, head tilted over the bread, shoulders hunched as if in preparation for a blow, as if he could feel the bounty hunter's eyes on him. It could have been the stance of a bastard slave, but the bounty hunter was no fool.

Even half-barbarian, a bastard child of a Tarkaan would never be so pale, even after so close a mark with death. And he was too old to fit the description of the boy. The bounty hunter need not get his hopes up for that, but then, that was not why he was here.

It had been, at first, and when he realized he had been tricked and this was not the boy he was looking for, he had almost decided to leave. Would have done, had this boy not _come back to life_ before his very eyes.

As it was, he had dropped the dead body of the boy whom he had dragged all this way as a sacrifice beside this living boy, and neglected to notice as it cracked against the Stone Table. Neglected to notice as the Talking Wolf disappeared back into the forest when the boy regained consciousness, his earlier vendetta against the Wolf now gone.

The boy had sat up, albeit slowly and still looking to be in considerable pain, looked around once, saw the bounty hunter, and asked if he had any food he might spare.

Alive and speaking.

If this could be done, then surely the slave boy could be brought back from the stone sorcery of the White Witch. Surely his sister could be saved.

He had heard tell, during his time amongst the Archenlanders, of the strange magic that the Narnians possessed, of the powers that their demon had. Surely this...resurrected wizard could divine some way of finding the child the bounty hunter sought.

The bounty hunter turned his attentions back to the boy, this odd child who had been dead but now wasn't. This child who now ate as any mere mortal needed to, his skin still hanging on bone, body still taut with exhaustion, and yet very much alive.

There had been no demon lion standing over him when he came back to life. It seemed that he had done so of his own volition. If he needed any more proof of the workings of barbaric sorcery, he need only look in front of him.

"You are human," the bounty hunter said finally, when the silence between them grew too thick. He wasn't certain, after all.

The corners of the boy's lips twitched, as though he were struggling not to laugh. "Astute observation," he said, apparently unable to hold the words back.

Curious.

The bounty hunter frowned at him. "And yet you are in Narnia. There are very few humans in Narnia, and even less of them young men of your age."

The boy lifted his chin defiantly, setting aside the bread, though he stared after it rather longingly before turning his gaze once more to the bounty hunter. "I should hope not."

"Then who are you? A wizard, in the employ of your demon god?" the bounty hunter bit out, trying with difficulty to hold back his disdain, though he had seen this boy, or his demon's power a moment before, and some part of him acknowledged that it was greater than any stories he had heard of the power of Tash.

The young man shrugged, still smiling that damnable smile. "I suppose you could say that."

The bounty hunter lifted a hopeful eyebrow. "Then, perhaps rescuing you was not a total waste; I could use your help."

"Rescuing me?" the boy echoed. "I do not recall that being the way of things. I simply woke and you were here."

"Nonetheless, if I had not come across you, you would have died out here, of exposure and your wounds."

The boy muttered something under his breath at that, something that sounded suspiciously like, "But I was already dead," but the bounty hunter didn't understand the words, didn't understand this whole situation, and so pretended not to hear them.

"What is it you want from my Lord?" the boy asked finally, and the bounty hunter smiled, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

Had he been a religious man, he would have been disgusted at his absolute betrayal of Tash in these next moments, but then, he was not religious. He was only doing what he would for the freedom of his sister, and he had learned long ago that, no matter how much he attempted to purge himself of any weaknesses, he could not.

"I came here looking for a boy. A young runaway. The half-blood son of a barbarian and a noble Tarkaan of Tashbaan. I was informed by reasonable sources that a boy had been brought to Narnia not so long ago fitting the description of the one I was after. That he had been turned to stone, but that your demon lion could fix him. That there is Old Magic in Narnia that can take a life for a life." A pause, as he assesed the boy, watched him pale underneath these words. Clearly, he knew something of what the bounty hunter spoke. "You are not the boy I wished to find."

"You're so sure?" The boy asked, and if he didn't know better, the bounty Hunter would have thought he was being teased.

"Quite. You sit like a lord. I came looking for a slave; instead I find you." He tilted his head, staring at the boy. "And yet, for some reason, you seem most familiar to me."

The boy smirked. "Must be the pale skin. And no, before you ask, I am not descended from a Calormene. That I know of," he said thoughtfully, chewing on the rest of that bread the bounty hunter had offered him a bit harder than necessary.

The bounty hunter decided to stop avoiding the issue then. "You were dead," he stated bluntly.

Edmund shrugged, glancing back towards the stone table with emotionless eyes. The bounty hunter couldn't help but wonder how he could stand to be so close to the thing, after being stabbed to death on it, as he and the wolf had claimed. And then waking up on it.

"How are you alive now?" the bounty hunter demanded. "Is it some magic of that demon of yours?"

The smirk turned to a grin, and the young man turned to face him once more. "Or, perhaps, perhaps something deeper. I thank him for it, though. But yes, I imagine it is a magic of some sort."

The bounty hunter snarled, remembering the old man with the pool who had led him here, clearly to a dead end. "I should kill you now for it, before you use whatever sorcery you have on me."

"But you're not sure that I would stay dead," the boy grinned. "I'm struggling to figure out what your demand was."

"What?"

"You wanted something from me. What was it?" and he sounded genuinely curious, as if he could grant whatever the bounty hunter's request was in an instant.

The bounty Hunter eyed him. Then, "Is it true that the demon lion can bring the dead back to life?"

The boy blinked at him, held up his hands as if to gesture to himself. "Well, I'm alive, aren't I?" he asked calmly, suddenly looking almost sad where he had seemed giddy up until now. The euphoria of returning from death seemed to finally be wearing thin.

The bounty Hunter blinked at him. "The boy I spoke of," he said finally. "I was sent by a Tarkaan to find him. But he's been turned to stone. Can you.."

"There is no way for me alone to bring him back," the boy answered forlornly, sounding genuinely sorrowful. "Not without Aslan."

"Then summon him. Your demon," the bounty hunter's lips curled as he spoke. "Surely you can do that."

The boy glanced up at him, a look of shock in those brown eyes. "I...can't."

The bounty Hunter glared, rushing forward and sliding his knife against the boy's skin, pressing it tightly against his throat. To his credit, the boy only flinched in response, one run in wth death in a day enough for him.

And that told the bounty hunter something. That there was a chance that this boy could still die again, that he was not immortal, as he'd feared.

"The wolf that led me here said you were favored by your demon. Perhaps if I slit your thoat, he'll come to save you."

The boy hissed in pain. "I...It doesn't work like that, probably because Aslan is not some demon..."

The bounty hunter sank down onto his haunches with a sigh. "Then the boy is truly lost to me, as is my reward."

And the boy looked just as surprised by his next words as the bounty hunter was, but he said them nonetheless. "You could stay in Narnia," he suggested finally. "My brother would be glad to offer asylum to my rescuer, if you return me to him now."

A pause. "Your brother does not know you are here, dying and resurrecting yourself?"

The boy looked almost affronted. "If he did, I would not be here, I think. And I did not resurrect myself, nor kill myself. That was-"

"Yes, yes, save it for another time," the bounty hunter waved it away. "Why would he do that?"

"You are clearly in trouble," the boy answered with a shrug. "And you rescued me. My brother would be...most grateful."

The bounty hunter snorted at the very idea. Asylum, in the barbarian land of monsters led by a demonic lion. "I just held a knife to your throat."

"If I'm able to sleep in my own bed tonight, I may be inclined to forget that."

The bounty hunter considered the offer for a moment. He knew that, should he return to Calormen empty-handed, not only would his sister die, but himself as well. But then he thought of his sister, of the Tarkaan's threat to slit her throat if he failed, and knew he could not be the one responsible for her death. "No. No, that is of no use to me."

For more reasons than one. Not only would his sister still die, if she were not already dead from his lack of punctuality, but he would rather die than spend the rest of his life amongst these barbaric creatures... He glanced up sharply as the full weight of the boy's words finally sunk in.

"Your brother could grant me asylum here," he repeated slowly, suddenly realizing what the boy had said. There were few who could grant asylum to a criminal like himself...

He stared at the mark on the boy's chest, just below his left shoulder, and his eyes widened as the truth of what some part of him had already known came crashing down. The mark, a brand, it was said, that the Tisroc, may he live forever, had given to the youngest King of Narnia two years prior when he'd kidnapped him and attempted to enslave him before the High King of Narnia, the Fire King, as many of the Calormenes called him, had ridden in to rescue him.

The brand. His brother.

The boy suddenly looked sorry for having spoken, paling considerably and glancing down at the small scrap of bread left in his hands as if he thought it suddenly poisoned. "I meant only in a manner of speaking. You would, of course, still have to-"

"You are King Edmund the Just," the bounty hunter interrupted, and if there was hint of admiration in his voice, it was buried deep. He eyed the boy, glancing down at his shredded trousers and bare feet. And yet, despite what his eyes told him, he could not help but believe it.

The boy sighed. "Aye. And, as I said, my brother would reward you handsomely for saving me, as you believe you have. As he is the King, he would be able to protect you, here."

The bounty hunter shook his head, slowly, still muddling this over in his mind. "I came to Narnia looking for a boy turned to stone, for a paltry reward from a minor Tarkaan and the chance to save someone I care for." A pause. "I believe I have just found a far greater reward."

Edmund blinked up at him. "If you take me captive, you are still abandoning your loved one to her fate for failing to find the boy. And my brother will see you dead for it."

"Oh, I think the Tisroc himself might be understanding of my...plight," the bounty hunter smirked, and reached for his sword. "Get up."

Edmund eyed him dubiously. "You'll regret this," he said, but stood to his feet anyway, wincing as he did so at the ache this caused in his still tired muscles.

The bounty hunter smirked, glancing down at the mangled body of the Archenland soldier. He had brought him here as a sacrifice, but now he thought he had a much better use for him. "Oh, I don't think I will. Your Narnians will not even know you are gone."

And then, for not the first time in the last few days, Edmund's world faded to black.


	21. As Death Sets In

The Witch's dungeons were not a part of the castle that Peter had ever visited before, though he could not profess to having been to the Witch's castle often. Indeed, he had only gone there a few times after her demise, to make sure there was nothing left within the castle that reeked of her magic and could potentially harm Narnia in her absence.

The first time had been with Aslan. They had not gone into the dungeons. He could remember wanting to, to see where Tumnus and Edmund had been kept, only for Aslan to tell him that it wasn't worth seeing.

And he supposed that his curiosity ever since then was not what brought him here now. No, he only wished to get away from Lucy's compassionate gaze, from the words of sympathy from everyone around him, from King Lune, and Oreius' warnings that Narnia needed a firm leader now more than ever.

There was a guard at the door to the dungeons, or else Peter was sure he would have never found it in the twisting halls of the castle, even with the help of the loyal ram beside him. He couldn't help wondering how the guard, a minotaur and obviously a Fell Creature, had managed to stay alive down here, after the castle had been taken over and thoroughly searched.

It was not difficult, however, to dispatch of him with the next thought.

The ram ripped a ring of key's from the minotaur's waist and held it out to Peter.

Peter's hands shook as he took the keys, examining them to see which fit the ice lock on the door. He had never seen such a lock, nor such keys; made entirely of ice. They were transparent, but incredibly thick and looked as though none of them would fit.

He tried them all, and none did save the very last. Typical, he supposed.

The door to the dungeons slid open slowly, skidding loudly across the icy floor and making Peter wince.

The dungeons were completely empty of any prisoners, much less the dozens Peter had been imagining the Witch would keep down here, even in her short time returned.

And yet there had been a guard; the minotaur, standing guard over an empty room.

He supposed that was a warning about...something, and if he had been thinking clearly Peter would have known what, exactly, but as it was he ignored the signs. The thought of what may have already become of his brother sent a shiver of fear down his spine, and Peter swallowed hard.

Because before him, in the tiny cell on the opposite side of the room, was the very evidence of Edmund's imprisonment. His torture, at the hands of the Witch and her minions.

"Stay outside," he ordered the ram, and the creature dipped his head before turning about to allow Peter some amount of privacy.

It was worse than he had imagined, and, with one glance, he finally understood why nightmares of his time in this place had plagued Edmund throughout the years even more so than any others.

The ice that made up the majority of the White Witch's castle had receded at this point, though some, non-magical, remained, in the floor and the very bottom of each wall, as well as at the corners. The rest of the room was made up of iron, lining the walls and low ceiling, spikes sticking threatening out of this iron every few paces. There were no cells anymore, though Peter imagined that there must have been, at one point, for iron manacles were attached to the icy floor in haphazard places, some still even filled with bloody, broken skin.

Peter forced himself not to gag, not to think of Edmund as he stared at the most fresh of these manacles, blood staining the floor around it so deeply that Peter doubted the sight would ever wash away.

Nor, he supposed, would the stench.

And he knew that these manacles most have held Edmund, not so very long ago, for he could see the cloth still attached to them, stuck there with blood, and he shuddered at the sight, at the mere thought of what Edmund must have gone through down here, especially given Lucy's colorful descriptions of how she had found him the one time the White Witch had allowed her access to her brother.

Peter knelt by the torn cloth, blinking as his eyes suddenly filled. "Aslan, how could you have allowed this to happen?" he whispered out hoarsely.

A hand, on his shoulder, pressing gently, and Peter spun at the touch, Rhindon already unsheathed, only to find himself facing Susan.

"Aslan, you frightened me," he whispered, somehow afraid that speaking any louder in these dungeons would lead to something horrible, even as his voice echoed off the icy walls. "What are you doing here? I thought you were with Lucy, tending to the wounded."

Susan shrugged, then turned away from him, glassy eyes examining the room, though her face betrayed none of her thoughts.

"Lucy told me not to come down here," she said finally, staring at a particularly cruel spike sticking out of the wall, made of stone rather than ice, and glinting dangerously sharp. Peter could only imagine why it stuck out of the wall like that, could only imagine how the White Witch had used it on her prisoners.

The thought of Edmund's bruised, bloodied body when Peter had finally rescued him from the White Witch came to mind, and for a moment he thought he might be sick.

Susan continued as if she hadn't notice the faint green coloration to his skin. "Told me that it would only bring us pain. Of course, I couldn't listen to her, not after hearing that. And...I suppose I wanted to see for myself." Her eyes finally turned back to him. "I suppose I really didn't."

"The Witch kept Lucy down here, too?" Peter demanded, and Susan gave him a sad, patient look, like she might a suitor who simply would not understand that he did not hold her interest. He sighed. "Of course she did. Aslan, that must have been a horrible experience for both of them."

"Peter..." Susan tried, but the words she would say failed her. Finally, "You mustn't blame yourself for this. We couldn't have known..."

"I'm supposed to be the High King, the biggest power in Narnia save Aslan and the Deep Magic. But I couldn't even protect my own family!" Peter shouted, the words reminiscent of the ones he had spoken to Aslan, all those years ago. He'd been a fool to disbelieve them then. "Edmund's _dead_ because I failed to protect him, Su! And he spent the last few days of his _life_ stuck in a nightmare that I'd always told him he would never have to face again. Lucy very near died as well," he choked on those last words, tears gathering in his eyes. "Narnia was almost lost to the Witch. And Ed..."

Susan eyed him sadly, but said nothing.

Peter continued, grimly encouraged by her silence. "It's my fault. I was such a fool, and this is all my fault. I'm supposed to protect you lot, to be the Magnificent King," he shook his head miserably. "I don't feel like a King."

Susan stepped forward, lifting a hand to his cheek. "I don't remember you feeling much like a king the day we were crowned, either," she said. "Any of us, for that matter. We were all frightened, but we were only just learning then. You never stop learning, Peter."

"That was several years ago," he argued. "I thought I became one, thought I'd learned what it took. Turns out I haven't."

"Then be one," Susan said. "And stop destroying yourself over the thought that what happened was your fault. The White Witch is dead, and it was she that did all of this, not you. You stopped her."

Peter swallowed hard. "You sounded like Edmund, just then."

Susan gave him a sad smile, eyes shining with unshed tears, and then reached out her hand, waggling her fingers when Peter didn't immediately take it.

The moment their fingers connected, Peter found himself unable to hold back the tears. And he was glad, in that moment, as Susan knelt beside him and wrapped her arm around his shoulder, that he was not so very alone as he thought.

"If we die in this world, what happens to us in...that other place?" Peter asked finally, when the tears had subsided enough to speak.

Susan just shook her head, having no real answer for him.

"He's dead," Peter whispered hoarsely in that moment, hating how very young he sounded with the words. "Edmund's really dead, Su." And then he was sobbing, unable to hold back the emotions flooding through him, and Susan could do nothing but wrap her arms around him and cry into his shoulder, wetting the fabric below his bloody chainmail soundlessly in comparison to his loud, angry sobs.

"I know," she whispered finally, voice rather strained. "I know, Peter."

"He's dead, and we were too late to do anything about it," Peter continued, some distant part of him hoping that she had had the presence of mind to shut the door after her when Susan followed him into the dungeons, so that the rest of the castle could not hear him.

For the most part, though, he could hardly bring himself to care if anyone witnessed his distinct lack of decorum.

"I still can't believe it," Peter said, staring at those horrible manacles again. "I can't believe, after all this time..."

"I know," Susan interrupted again, but Peter wasn't finished quite yet.

"All those nightmares, Su. Almost every night, and he would bear them alone at first. I caught him, a couple of weeks after we were crowned, screaming in the middle of the night. After that, he'd come into my room after one hit and wake me up, and I would always promise him that there was nothing to be frightened of, that _she_ could never touch him again." He ran a hand through greasy blond hair. "Aslan, I feel like such a horrible liar."

"You couldn't have possibly known, Peter," Susan attempted to console him, but Peter would hear none of it.

"That doesn't matter. He still...that was the one thing he was frightened of, Su. Nothing else could budge him, but the night terrors...they were all about her. All about her haunting him, about this very dungeon." He bit down hard on his lower lip. "And I could always save him from them just by shaking him awake." He swallowed hard, gulping down hot tears and meeting his sister's troubled gaze. "I couldn't save him this time. I tried, but I..."

"We all tried, Peter. But you defeated the White Witch. You..." she bit down on her lower lip, as if contemplating whether or not to speak the next words. "We avenged him."

A heavy silence hung between them. Then,

"It wasn't just me," Peter whispered, when the tears had subsided and he had enough presence of mind to be embarrassed by Susan's hold on him, as though he truly were a child and she his mother, offering comfort. "I didn't think I'd be able to kill her, without giving in to my anger. And then I remembered Aslan, finally."

Susan stiffened, turned away from him at the words. "It was still you who killed her," she said finally, her voice almost accusing.

Peter nodded. "Yes, but I would not have been able to do so and forgiven myself afterward if I hadn't been able to remember my faith," he said finally, wondering if she was somehow testing him, as her voice had certainly sounded like it a moment ago. "I remembered that he's never left us alone before, and suddenly I had the strength to fight her one more time."

Susan frowned. "You didn't look very weak to me," she whispered softly, the words somehow reverberating throughout the dungeon.

Peter chose to ignore the comment, realizing that, a week ago, he might have had the same viewpoint. "Do you think he'll come back soon?" he asked instead.

Susan shrugged. "There has never been a Narnian ruler who was not entombed without Aslan saying a final blessing. And there has never been a ruler so deserving of that blessing besides Edmund."

Peter nodded. "Of course he'll come, then." He reached for his sister's hand, helping her to her feet. "And perhaps he'll explain what took him so long, when he does." He looked grimly satisfied at the prospect.

He did not notice the falter in his sister's step, as she followed him out of the dungeons after those words. As she responded quietly, "I certainly hope he does."

* * *

 _The Witch's dagger cut into his skin, slowly, as though she were savoring every second of Edmund's pain. The knife glinted in the moonlight, the sound of wolves howling around them, though all Edmund could focus on was her leering smile, as the Witch learned down and whispered into his bleeding ear, "You think you've won, little king. You don't know the truth of it, though. I will_ always _win,_ _here. Here, at least, I am still Queen."_

Edmund jerked awake with a gasp, to find that his eyes were covered with some sort of mask, and he could see nothing but blackness. As the events of the last few days swept over him, he rationalized that, by waking, he had only foolishly traded one nightmare for another.

It seemed Tash had cursed him after all, as the Tisroc had once told him, to a life of night terrors; memories, becoming reality to haunt him once more.

He took a deep, calming breath, realizing that, for some reason, despite the fact that Aslan had brought him back and the wound where the Witch had killed him was now healed, it was still difficult to breathe. Then he groped around for his surroundings, remembering Oreius' first lessons to him and his brother about hostage situations.

_Keep a level head. Figure out where you are. If possible, leave a trail so you can be found. Try to escape._

His hands were bound rather ruthlessly behind his back, the twine digging into his skin even as it scratched against the tree he had been bound to. His feet were loose, and he managed to scuff them against the dirt for a moment before determining that he was still in Narnia. The ground in Archenland was not quite so soft, so smooth. And in Calormen, he supposed, it would have been sand.

The distinct smell of a nearby fire flitted to his nostrils then, masking the fresh scent of the forest around him, of the sea beyond, and something else that smelled delicious and made his stomach growl, giving him away. He let out a small, defeated sigh.

"You're awake," a voice said then, and Edmund froze.

Not a nightmare after all.

He didn't bother to answer, for, in that moment, the bounty hunter moved over to him, checking Edmund's bonds and them ripping off the blindfold on Edmund's face, and the young king flinched at the sudden bright light assaulting his senses, though it was not from the sun, but from a brilliant fire in front of him.

It was nightfall, the stars blinking above, the fire leaping almost to Edmund's own height sitting down, but hardly letting off smoke.

The bounty hunter, the man he could remember from the Stone Table, stood before him, face twisted into a slight sneer as he stared down at Edmund for a mere heartbeat, eerie shadows from the fire casting across his features.

"Where are we?" Edmund demanded, having a hard time believing that, if they were still in Narnia as he thought, they had not been found. Surely Peter was looking. Or, if not him, then Jadis.

The bounty hunter ignored him, moving back over to the small fire in the middle of the clearing the now occupied, and bending down to pick up the bowl hung over it; the source of that delicious scent. Edmund watched him warily, stomach once again informing him that he would very much like to partake of whatever it was the bounty hunter had cooked.

"On our way," the bounty hunter answered, which Edmund didn't think was much of an answer at all. In any case, he had a pretty good idea; this was not the Western Woods, as he knew that place by heart, and was certainly not Owl Wood, for that forest was far sparser.

He glanced around then, ignoring his captor for a moment in favor of taking in the rest of his surroundings. The small clearing they inhabited was still deep in the woods, but he knew that, should he manage to escape his bonds and his captor, if only for a few moments, he would be able to find help with some of the Talking Beasts in this area, or at the very least get one of the dryads to send a message to his siblings.

"I suppose that even those resurrected must get hungry sometimes then," the bounty hunter said finally, breaking through his thoughts, and Edmund blinked up at him.

"Huh?"

The bounty hunter snorted at this articulate response, and, in a moment, Edmund found a bowl of something warm and heavenly shoved into his hands, still bound, though no longer to the tree behind him. He did not think to ask how the bounty hunter had acquired the bowl, when he'd hardly been carrying anything on his person when he found Edmund at the Stone Table, not sure that he wanted to know the answer.

Still, the smell of the stew the man had made rivalled Mrs. Beavers', and he grinned even as he took a sip of it, balancing it on the ropes around his wrists.

Surely it wasn't poisoned, if the bounty hunter wished to take him back to Calormen for a reward.

Some part of him, perhaps ingrained by Susan's constant reminders, thought to thank the man, even if he was his kidnapper, intent on bringing him to Tashbaan for a reward.

And then Edmund belatedly realized that this stew tasted of meat, and no doubt the bounty hunter had not been so careful as to ensure his prey was not a Talking Beast before he had skinned it.

Edmund suddenly found he no longer had an appetite, and he set the bowl on the ground with a green face, sending up a silent prayer to Aslan for forgiveness and hoping that he would not empty the contents of his stomach in the next few moments.

The bounty hunter glanced up in surprise, and then eyed Edmund suspiciously, clearing looking for some sort of trap in the words. "If you think to make me feel guilty for taking you captive, and therefore let you go, you are a fool," he said finally, and turned back to his stew.

It was a good thing he did, or he would have noticed the way that Edmund was staring at the ground around his feet with sudden interest.

Edmund resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the words. "If you don't let me go before we reach the border, you're the fool," he countered. "My brother will chase you across the desert to find me; he's done it before."

If Peter was even still alive. Though Edmund supposed he must be; the ground around him was soft, warm. There was not a flake of snow in sight, and the warm sea breeze was certainly comforting.

Still, he would have liked visual confirmation, in that moment.

"A pity, then, that I don't plan on crossing the desert," the bounty hunter muttered, before pulling out the dagger in his boot. Edmund's breath hitched for a moment, the young king fully convinced that perhaps he had been foolish to think the Tisroc would want him alive, before the other man picked up a rock and started scraping it against the blunt side of the weapon. "And the last I checked, your brother was in the middle of fighting a war, Your Majesty."

It took a moment for those words to sink in. "What?"

He supposed he should not have been too surprised; this bounty hunter had already demonstrated that he was quite capable of looking out for himself, even if Edmund was not planning on making that easy for him in the days to come. But people knew him in Archenland; the man would not have quite so easy a time getting a ship back home as he had getting one there.

"You are the King of this country; I would think that even you might notice that we are not on our way South, but East," the man cajoled.

And as the bounty hunter's plan suddenly moved into place, Edmund could not help his guffaw of disbelief. "You'll never make it out of the harbor at Cair. No one will hire a ship for you if you're dragging along their King in chains."

The bounty hunter raised a brow. "Who said anything about hiring a ship? I have one already at my disposal there, as you'll see. You're not the only ones, you barbarians, who know how to force your animals to send messages. Now eat. And rest. You'll need the strength for the walk ahead of us, Your Majesty."

Edmund glanced down at the small bowl, the man's words a reminder of what he had just done. "I'm not hungry," he said finally, bile rising in his throat as he wondered just how the bounty hunter had convinced one of his people to send that message.

The bounty hunter lifted a brow in amusement. "Suit yourself. I forgot that you barbarians didn't eat meat."

"We do," Edmund said, after a full minute of biting his lower lip, "Just not our subjects." And he felt anger well up in him then, that he had done so, that this man was still doing so.

He let his hands fall back into his lap, moving carefully as he picked up the small stick beneath his leg and snapped it in two. The man's sharpened dagger had given him an idea, after all.

Silently, he moved so that his bound hands were at his left thigh, and began methodically rubbing the twig against the rock he had noticed digging into his skin there upon waking. It would take time. He needed a distraction.

But if the bounty hunter noticed Edmund's sudden uncomfortable change in position, he said nothing, slurping at the remainder of his stew and sharpening that blade.

It took all of Edmund's willpower not to flinch at the very sight of the glinting metal, at the thought of what that blade could most certainly do to him, of what the last blade that had touched him had done, in the hands of the White Witch.

"Why were you with King Lune's army, anyway? I know for a fact that every single one of his soldiers is handpicked by either himself or one of his loyal lords," Edmund said, forcing his voice not to sound accusing and therefore antagonize his captor.

That was certainly the last thing he wanted, if he entertained a hope of escaping this man.

The bounty hunter shrugged, for once not looking in Edmund's direction, and the young man smirked as he felt the end of the twig he was holding; now sharp enough to prick his finger. Perfect.

"I disguised myself as a stable hand for one of King Lune's _loyal_ lords when I reached Archenland, in the hopes of finding that boy," the bounty hunter drawled. "Then the news came of war in Narnia, and of a boy turned to stone there. When his own squire died on the road, he took me on in the man's stead."

"That was rather unfortunate for the man," Edmund muttered, rubbing the sharpened end of the twig against the ropes holding him. He needed a bit more leverage, or perhaps just a few more minutes. The rope was not thick; indeed, if Edmund was at his normal strength, it would not have been difficult to escape even without the twig, making him wonder why the bounty hunter had bothered at all.

Perhaps it was the only thing he had to bind Edmund with. Or perhaps he thought that, after rising from the dead, Edmund would be too weak to escape it on his own.

"Is there a point to your questions, Your Majesty?" the bounty hunter asked then.

"Just trying to figure out what Narnia will need to do in the future to keep people like you from invading her borders," Edmund responded with a cheeky grin.

The first thread of rope snapped beneath his ministrations, and he couldn't help that smile.

As he tore through the second layer, it let out a small ripping sound, making the bounty hunter glance up at him in suspicion.

"Perhaps we should move on," he said then, stepping around the fire to grab Edmund and haul him to his feet. Edmund went willingly, holding his bound hands close to his body. Luckily, in the darkness, the bounty hunter's sight was at least partially impaired, and he did not notice the way the ropes had already begun to fray.

The bounty hunter made quick work of putting out the fire, stamping it with his feet and breaking the bowl against the spine of the nearest tree, causing Edmund to flinch in sympathy and wonder why the man was ruining a perfectly good bowl.

And then they were moving, the bounty hunter holding a knife to his back and shoving Edmund along none too gently through the forest as they did so.

Edmund sent up another prayer that his features were not so obscured by the darkness that the trees would not recognize him, that they would get some sort of message to his siblings, that he was alive, if nothing else. Then again, he wore no shirt and was covered in about a week's worth of grime and blood.

He could only hope his siblings would eventually recognize him.

Despite the sleep he had obviously gotten, considering that they were now a good distance away from the Stone Table, Edmund's legs moved sluggishly under him as he trudged ahead of the bounty hunter, that little twig still clasped in his hands tightly, hidden from view.

They walked in silence, the only noise the occasional wind through the trees, but Edmund knew that this would not last for long. They were nearing the edge of the forest, as he could tell from the increasingly salty air, and the trees were far more spread out now than they had been merely moments ago, Edmund no longer fearing that he was going to walk straight into one.

The twig dug into his skin then, and he looked down in surprise, footsteps faltering for only a moment.

"What's your name?" Edmund asked abruptly, and the bounty hunter looked up at him with a raised brow. Frankly, Edmund was surprised the man hadn't figured him out by now.

"What does it matter to you?" the man demanded suspiciously.

Edmund shrugged. "You know mine."

The bounty hunter snorted. "Half the world knows yours, _Your Majesty_."

"So?"

The bounty hunter stared into the distance for a moment before answering, in a softer tone that Edmund had yet heard from him, "There are very few in the world who know mine."

Edmund bit his lip. "This loved one you're kidnapping me to save."

The bounty hunter turned and glared at him, eyes sharpening as he realized what Edmund had really been doing, with this conversation. "What are you doing?" he demanded, nodding his head toward the stick in Edmund's clenched fingers.

Edmund gave the bounty hunter an innocent smile. "Merely trying to find some way to amuse myself. You're one of my more boring kidnappers, you know."

The bounty hunter raised a brow. "Is that right? I suppose you've had some experience with kidnappers, then."

"Oh, quite a few," Edmund smirked. "Most kings do, at some point or another, though my sisters," he swallowed, thinking of Susan and Lucy, "my sisters tell me that I am a special exception to that rule. Never a real bounty hunter before, though. I suppose that's something, in your favor."

The man snorted. "I suppose it is." And then he had a dagger at Edmund's throat. "Drop it."

Edmund gulped, the stick falling from his fingers and hitting the ground with a light snap. The bounty hunter eyed it for a moment, and then glanced up at Edmund. Laughed.

"What were you planning to do with that, Your Majesty, if I may ask?"

Edmund wasted only a moment; it would cost him. "This," and then he was moving, the broken rope in his hand his only weapon, and yet he had fought with less before. Usually with Peter by his side to take up the slack, but still.

It was just long enough for his purpose, after all.

The bounty hunter froze, taking a moment to work out the fact that Edmund had freed himself before cursing under his breath and pulling forth his dagger. "I'd choose carefully what you do next, Your Majesty," he warned lowly.

Edmund ignored the warning, lashing out even as the dagger nicked his skin, a drop of blood splattering to the ground in front of him. The knife twisted in the other man's grip, and Edmund, once again ignoring the injury it would cause him, lunged, wincing only as the knife pierced his skin before he managed to throw the rope around his captor's throat and pull.

Edmund held the rope there, twisting it around in his fingers to keep a good grip on it even as he attempted to tighten his grip around the bounty hunter's throat. Even as guilt throbbed painfully within.

He managed, after a tense moment, to do so, and the bounty hunter let out a strangled yell as they both fell in a heap to the ground, Edmund's rope tightening around his vocal cords cruelly as the Just King straddled him.

Edmund had never strangled someone to death before. He had seen Peter do so, once, a long time ago, though, and knew that it was not an easy process. That it took much longer than one would think, to choke the life out of someone's body.

He didn't want to strangle his captor now. Hoped merely to knock him out, if he could. But he knew that he had to return to his siblings, no matter the cost.

He could feel the muscles in his captor's throat spasming against his hand, could feel the man attempting to buck him off, but Edmund held firm, a strength that he hadn't seemed to possess while walking now coursing through him. Though he couldn't see it in the darkness, Edmund could well imagine the bounty hunter's face turning blue, his eyes bulging, could almost feel the fight, the air, leaving the man's body. Could feel the bounty hunter's fingers scraping against his arms in a feeble attempt to free himself.

And then, without warning, the bounty hunter managed to get his hand under Edmund's chin, forcing his head back, and Edmund let out a cry as his muscles strained. It was all the bounty hunter needed; Edmund's grip on the rope loosened for only a moment, and the bounty hunter was able to throw him off.

Edmund let out a cry as his back smacked into the small hill beneath him, the rope flying from his fingers.

His captor spun, shoving Edmund onto the ground this time, fists holding Edmund down by the wrists even as his knee pressed into Edmund's back.

Above them, the moonlight cast an eerie shadow on their forms, and Edmund could only hope one of the dryads had seen the scuffle and gone for help. Though he doubted that any of them were awake at this hour, and, if they were, they were most certainly at Dancing Lawn, rather than this side of the forest.

The knife suddenly pressed into his spine forced Edmund to stop squirming, and he went absolutely still at the feel of it against his back once more.

"I was hoping to avoid this," the bounty hunter ground out above him. His voice was coarse now, rougher than before, and Edmund felt a twinge of guilt, picturing the marks that would line his throat in the morning.

Edmund shrugged, speaking in a breathy laugh, "I was hoping to escape."

"And so we are both at odds," the bounty hunter muttered, and then he was pulling Edmund to his feet, none too gently.

"Well, I have a reputation to uphold, even if I am dead. I had to try, at the very least," Edmund said, even as his captor ripped off a piece of his own tunic and yanked Edmund's hands behind his back this time. The cloth was soft, and not nearly as thick as the rope had been, but his captor tied his hands securely enough that Edmund was sure he would lose all feeling in them in a few more minutes.

"If I let you walk on your own, do you promise not to run? I'd hate to bring home broken merchandise," the bounty hunter drawled.

Edmund flinched at the toneless words. "If you let me go, I promise you'll make double whatever the Tisroc would give you."

"For the King of Narnia who escaped him once before?" the bounty actually laughed at the words. "I think you undervalue your own worth, Your Majesty. Narnia could ill afford to pay such a pretty price for you."

Edmund shivered unconsciously at the thought, suddenly more than aware that he had no tunic of his own.

His captor did not seem very sympathetic to that fact, and they were walking again, at an admittedly faster pace, with Edmund's hands now in the bounty hunter's clear sight.

It was not until they had crested another dune, and Edmund could see Cair Paravel in the distance, _home_ , and oh, did that thought ache at him, and the Eastern Sea beyond, that either spoke again.

"Mahir. My name if Mahir."


	22. In Our Time Of Mourning

There was no feast in Cair Paravel after the second victory over the White Witch. No celebration, as there usually was during that time known as the Golden Age, after a battle had been won. Only a somber silence in Cair, and indeed, across Narnia, as the black flags were hung in the palace and the order for the harbor to be closed given.

This victory had been hard won, and Cair and all of Narnia mourned the loss of her youngest King, the black flags of mourning hanging from the city gates, and all ports closed from trade.

Though King Lune usually stayed in Narnia after an alliance between the two of them heralded success, this one found him returning to Archenland and to his wife and son after only one day spent at Cair, his usually joyous expression especially pensive as he embraced the rulers he had come to see as his own children, and thought of the one he would never embrace again.

He had left behind quite a few of his troops in the event that "Narnia had need of them," for which the Queen Susan appeared grateful, though her siblings seemed far less so. Narnia was vulnerable now, quite so, and she had no doubt that other nations with less kindness in their hearts toward this land would seek to take advantage.

Calormen had yet to do so, at which she was rather surprised. In fact, after King Lune, the Tisroc had been the first to extend his condolences from another nation upon hearing of the death of King Edmund. He'd sent his most trusted emissary before the ports were closed, bearing gifts that he hoped would help Narnia in her time of need.

The gifts had been accepted, but the emissary had been sent away shortly after; an affront to Calormen at any other time.

It was said that High King Peter had become distracted, sitting upon his throne with his thoughts far away, slow to show any emotion or make any decision, even as to the fate of the Fell Creatures that had surrendered after the death of the White Witch. Some said he was waiting for Aslan to return. Others said the death of his brother had broken him.

The youngest little Queen, Lucy, sequestered herself away in the Royal Library, reading old scrolls and seeing no one but her siblings and Mr. Tumnus, her closest confidant. And indeed, the only one of those three who listened to her words with patience, in those sad days.

The Queen Susan presided over the palace as she always did, going about with head held high and often overseeing tasks that were the High King's responsibility, lest they not be seen to at all. She wore black gowns and yet came out of her chambers each morn with a clean face, and did not once break down before her people, a hidden strength in her that they admired, though none would have protested had she mourned for their beloved king.

It was on one such day that Queen Susan decided to go and find her sister for herself, the younger girl having not come to breakfast or dinner, and, though this was not exactly a rare habit between the two of her siblings these days, it concerned Susan nonetheless.

She knew that Lucy was still in the Royal Library; she'd asked several of the mice about the castle to watch out for her, and to tell Susan if she left or did something foolish. It was not that she was expecting her normally happy sister to do something foolish; she was merely terrified of losing another sibling to anything, even to the books that Lucy had buried herself in.

She didn't know what her sister was in there doing, all this time. She supposed Lucy had found all of her favorite fairy tales, the ones Edmund used to tell her when they were younger, or perhaps she was reading all of Edmund's favorites.

Susan couldn't help but shudder at the thought, remembering Edmund's favorites.

Edmund. Sweet, patient Edmund.

She could see him in every facet of the castle, every crevice. Could see him in the mirror that hung on the wall outside the throne room, the very same mirror she could remember stopping in front of before everything started that awful day, when the boy made of stone was brought before them and the news of the Witch's return told by that awful hag.

_"There will be at least fifty grievances for King Edmund the Just."_

It took her some time to realize she had been standing in front of the mirror, staring at her own sorrowful reflection for much longer than could be considered normal, but seeing Edmund's face in it made her never wish to look away.

And then she was moving again, but she had no peace as she hurried down the marble corridors, seeing Edmund in every glistening reflection, hearing his subdued laughter down the hall, seeing his touch upon everything she passed.

She supposed she must have looked quite foolish, running through the halls as she was, holding up her skirts and glancing around like a frightened animal. She was rather pleased there was no one about to see her, all busy with their duties in trying to bring Narnia back to normal.

Well, almost normal.

Their population had been decimated by the Witch's return, by the army she had waged against the "usurpers," as Susan had been told she called them. Though, in the end, Peter had won, it had been with great cost. They had lost many loyal soldiers. Not just Edmund, Susan tried to tell herself, though this seemed only to strengthen her pain.

She was not the only one who mourned the loss of a brother. She mourned the loss of one of Narnia's Kings, and since her siblings seemed unable to do so, she had to remain strong for Narnia.

Sighing, Susan lifted her shoulders and walked with renewed purpose to find her sister, not once glancing around this time.

She found the royal library just as Mr. Tumnus was leaving it, closing the double doors behind him and dabbing at his eyes with the old handkerchief Lucy had once given him. He did not notice Susan until they literally collided with each other.

"Oh, Your Majesty," he stammered in surprise, earning a look from her. No matter how many times the Pevensies attempted, it seemed that Mr. Tumnus would never learn to simply call them by their right names. Well, all but Lucy, of course, but he would do anything she asked, Susan knew.

"That was quite my fault, Mr. Tumnus," she said serenely, clasping her gloved hands together, "I was lost in thought."

Mr. Tumnus quickly put away the handkerchief, looking rather happy that she had not mentioned it. "Easily forgiven, Your Majesty. It seems we all are, these days."

He moved to go around her, but Susan placed a gentle hand on his arm. "How is she?" she asked, voice softening considerably as she nodded toward the closed door of the library.

Mr. Tumnus sighed, following her gaze and looking rather guilty to be confiding in Susan about Lucy's condition even as he answered. "She is...determined, that one."

Susan gave him a sad smile. "I had a feeling you might say that."

"Just...give her time, Your Majesty. And your ears. She needs someone to listen to her, especially now," Tumnus replied.

Susan dipped her head, reminded of how that task had always seemed to fall to Edmund in the past. Ed... "I know that. It is just so hard to hear what she wants to say."

And then Susan was moving past him, into the library. She heard Tumnus shut the door behind her, and was grateful for the scant amount of privacy this would provide the two Queens of Narnia. They had so little time alone together these days.

The Royal Library at Cair was one of the more magnificent rooms in all the palace. Though there had been precious little of Cair when the Pevensies had first come to Narnia but an abandoned relic, the library had, to the surprise of all, remained largely intact since the first days of its use, and Archenland, Galma, and Terebinthia had largely contributed to its stores over the years since.

The ceiling reached almost as high as that of the throne room, the walls covered in shelves full of books, and, at the opposite end of the room, a balcony overlooked the Eastern Sea, scrolls lying unattended on it.

As it was, filled to the brim with scrolls and faded old books as the room was, it was difficult for Susan to find her younger sister in the mess, but she eventually spotted her; buried beneath a rather precarious shelf of maps with three large, leather-bound books in her lap.

She walked forward, gracelessly falling onto a stack of books as close to her sister as she dared go before she thought she would lose her footing in all these upended novels, and sat down, waiting for Lucy to acknowledge her.

When the younger girl did not, seemingly engrossed in whatever it was she was reading, Susan finally let out a long sigh. "This was always Edmund's favorite place to go, whenever he needed to be alone."

And it was true. Edmund had loved this library from the moment he had first set eyes upon it, endeavoring to add to it as much as he could. He'd always loved books, even...before. Lucy, not so, preferring the company of others to the solemnity of this place.

Lucy did not respond, though Susan thought she had given her little sister the perfect opportunity to speak, as Mr. Tumnus had suggested she do. Instead, the Valiant Queen remained engrossed in that book, and finally Susan pulled it from her fingers.

Lucy let go without much strain, sighing and picking up the book beneath that one while Susan gazed in horror at the title, having imagined her sister to be in here reading...well, she didn't know, comforting fairy tales or Edmund's favorite books, but not this.

" _The Deep Magic, and what Came Before,"_ she read. "Lucy, whatever are you doing, reading these? They certainly aren't your usual stories."

Lucy sighed, snatching the book back. "You'd know if you'd even bothered to pay attention to anything I've been telling you since..." she trailed off, eyes suddenly brimming with tears. "Anyway, I think I might have found something."

"Lucy." Forget what Mr. Tumnus had said. Susan could not bear to see her sister like this, scrambling for answers, in denial of what was so plainly before her. Of what so plainly lay in the crypt beneath Cair Paravel, the first monarch of the Golden Age to be entombed, and without even Aslan's blessing, for he had not come even for that.

And Susan could not say how much that hurt, to know that Aslan had abandoned them so fully that he would not even come upon the death of her brother. Perhaps she might have forgiven him had he simply abandoned them to the Witch, might have listened to whatever excuses he had for not returning while she terrorized Narnia, but Edmund...

"Lucy, please look at me," Susan pleaded, and finally, _finally_ , Lucy looked up at her, eyes so full of pain that Susan almost wished she hadn't. "Lucy, Edmund is...he's dead. He isn't coming back, and playing with the Deep Magic, with something so far beyond our understanding, it isn't going to bring him back."

"It brought Aslan back," Lucy argued stubbornly. "When the Witch killed Aslan on the Stone Table, because he wasn't a traitor, the Deep Magic brought him back to life. Edmund wasn't a traitor. Aslan forgave him."

"I know that, Lucy," Susan responded quietly, hating the accusation in her younger sister's voice.

"Who's to say the body we found was even Edmund's? Can you recognize it?" Lucy continued with her wild theory.

Susan sighed. "When the White Witch killed Aslan, the Stone Table was still a device for killing traitors. When he came back to life, it cracked. Now," she swallowed hard, "now it's just a table made out of stone, Lucy. A relic. It hasn't held any magic since."

Lucy shook her head. "No, you don't understand. That isn't Edmund lying in that crypt. I know that it isn't, and I'm going to prove it."

"Then who else it would be, Lucy?" Susan demanded, voice raising despite her efforts to remain patient, to listen, like Edmund might have done. "Tell me why I should believe you." Especially when Lucy had not once gone down to visit the body in that crypt, had not once glanced at it, since her healing cordial had failed to revive their brother.

She knew her sister was reacting even worse to the death of their brother than she and Peter were. Susan simply didn't know how to help her without hurting her more, in her own grieved state, for Lucy seemed locked in the firm denial that Edmund was not truly dead, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

"Someone the Witch found to make it look like she killed Edmund. She wanted us to believe it, so that she could die knowing she'd won," Lucy continued, not bothering to notice Susan's bemused gaze. "Aslan would never-"

"If Aslan hasn't abandoned us, then where is he? Why isn't he here now? For that matter, why didn't he come when the Witch was brought back to life, or when Edmund was taken captive?" Susan demanded, hating the way her younger sister flinched at her raised voice but needing her to _understand_. "He's abandoned us, Lu. He isn't coming, and Edmund is gone."

"No," Lucy shook her head. "No, that isn't so. Aslan is the reason Peter was able to defeat the White Witch, again."

"Lu-" Susan tried again, reaching out to push a stray strand of hair behind Lucy's ear, but the girl jerked from her touch. She sighed. Though she was generally known as the mother to her siblings, Edmund had always been so much better at comforting Lucy than she. He'd always seemed to understand his siblings, even herself, in a way that Susan never could.

And Susan needed Edmund here now. For, though she was mother, she needed someone to comfort her just as badly as her siblings.

Lucy stared down at the book in her hands. "You'd better go and check on Peter," she said softly, refusing to meet Susan's gaze.

Susan sighed. "Lucy, I'm sorry," she tried again. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Lucy just turned away from her, burying her nose in a book once more. And as Susan stood and left the room, smoothing down her skirts as she did so and ordering one of the passing mice to keep an eye on her sister, she couldn't help the horrible feeling welling up inside her that the Pevensie family had never been so far apart, not since coming from...that other world.

She could barely remember a time when she might have thought that was Edmund's fault, for pushing them all away and being so cruel to Lucy before he was rescued from the White Witch. Or Peter's, for failing to listen when Edmund so clearly needed him to. Or perhaps all of theirs combined, for being so stubborn.

But now, she could not help the unshakable feeling that it was her own doing, this time.

* * *

Edmund had met Calormen's emissary to Narnia, Amin Tarkaan, several times during the few years that he had been its King, and had from the beginning knew that there was something...off about him. Knew that he was not so trustworthy as he liked to pretend, sharing state secrets with the Four in an attempt to bargain his way into their good graces.

He had warned his siblings, and had found Oreius to be an ally in this, that the man was not to be trusted, and to this day believed that doing so had saved his life, during that horrible incident when he had been taken prisoner by the Tisroc.

Of course, he had never believed that the oily little man would resort to kidnapping, where his master seemed to look upon the act happily enough.

It was some relief, though, he supposed, to know that a Calormene Emissary was in Cair at all.

In meant that his siblings had won. That they had somehow defeated the White Witch, for otherwise the man would have never stepped foot in Narnia. And though Edmund would certainly have liked to know how they had done it, he was more happy with the realization that they had.

"You will pay for this, if you don't release me this instant," he hissed at the man through clenched teeth the moment he was within spitting distance, standing on the deck of the Ambassador's own ship. And briefly considered spitting, too, before Mahir's hold on his upper arms tightened, and he knew he would not get away with the act.

The Emissary lifted an eyebrow at the scrawny, dirty young man before him, and it took Edmund a moment to realize that the man did not even recognize him.

He was not sure whether he should be offended or not, considering that they were within walking distance of Cair Paravel. Or swimming distance.

Walking distance. If only he could get away, he would be free. He would be able to go back to his siblings in an instant.

A pity then, that he had not been lucid for the journey to his home. Had only awoken on this foul ship, to be greeted with the Emissary's equally foul gaze.

He glanced around the ship, taking in everything his tired gaze could see. The men, all Calormene, eying him with casual interest, wondering what a barbarian captive was doing on the deck of their ship while they still made port in Narnia, no doubt. The Captain, moving forward as if to protest, and then thinking better of it under the Emissary's scathing look.

And just beyond him, the men securing their ship in the harbor, the _Narnian_ harbor, Cair Paravel looming in the very distance. Narnian envoys would be here any moment to welcome them, would see Edmund, would know...

It was enough.

Before he could truly rationalize what he was doing, Edmund moved, reaching back and grabbing the dagger that Edmund knew was secured to the bounty hunter's waist, pulling it free and bringing it around to cut loose his bonds.

Mahir swore, lunging at him, but, just this once, was not fast enough.

Edmund's bonds came free with a satisfying snap, and he held the dagger out toward the man, lips curling into a sneer as he backed toward the bow of the vessel.

The other men on the ship were on alert in an instant, reaching for their own weapons -whether that consisted of scimitars or mere rope - and moving toward him. Edmund didn't think. He slashed out with the dagger at the nearest man, a sailor, who let out a rather satisfying shout before attempting to lunge at him.

Edmund rolled under him, jumping to his feet and finding himself happily at the Wheel. The men froze, unsure how to stop him, for none were quite so desperate as he in that moment, and he had the smallest inkling of hope that he might yet survive this.

Edmund spun the wheel without a second thought, eyes widening as the ship jerked lazily to port, and the men in front of him fought to keep their footing on the deck.

He held the dagger out in front of him as though it were his sword, hissing, "Let me off this ship if your value your necks."

He was aware of how foolish this was, somewhere in the back of his mind. That even if he now had control of the wheel, they were still anchored in the harbor, and these men still stood between him and freedom.

He just didn't care.

"Drop the knife, boy," the Captain spoke then, the one man that Edmund had not accounted for, standing behind him. He could feel the tight notch of an arrow against the back of his neck, felt his face burn with the realization that he hadn't been paying attention.

Desperation made Peter a better fighter. It made Edmund careless.

The knife clattered to the deck of the ship loudly, the sailors breathing an audible sigh of relief.

And Edmund found himself, once again, on his knees, as Mahir held him down. Panting as he struggled to stand, telling himself that, should he survive this, he would have to get Oreius to train him in fighting a bit more dirty, for clearly he'd not had enough practice at it as he'd thought.

But when the emissary finally spoke, it was not to the Just King, but to Mahir, standing just behind him, as if Edmund were not worth the time of day. And he looked almost angry, on Edmund's behalf.

"This is not the boy I asked you to bring me," he said finally, and Edmund's eyes widened at the words.

Perhaps he had simply been imagining that anger would be for him. Of course he was; he knew well that this man had made his fortune in the slave trade. What would one captive barbarian mean to him?

Mahir had told him that the boy he was sent to find was the bastard of some wealthy Tarkaan. He had not once imagined, however, that _this_ was the Tarkaan Mahir was referring to. Calormen's Emissary to Narnia since the beginning of trade between Calormen and Narnia in the Golden Age.

Oh, what a small world they lived in. He was almost amused, but then he remembered that he was still this man's captive.

"The boy was dead when I arrived," Mahir said shortly. "But I have brought you another prize. Behold King Edmund the Just." And then he was shoving Edmund forward, for it seemed that all gentleness had fled his actions in the sight of the Tarkaan. "I think that this should more than make up for my failure. And I'm sure the Tisroc will appreciate it, in any case, if you do not."

The Emissary's eyes widened. "You've brought me the King of Narnia?" he demanded, suddenly looking rather scared, and Edmund could not help his smirk at the sight. After all, the ship was in a Narnian port. If they were caught...oh, but Edmund might just enjoy that. Might have to put a stop to it before Peter went too far, but might enjoy it for a little while, just the same.

"He is a greater prize, is he not?" Mahir demanded, nodding to Edmund. "I will travel with you to Tashbaan, where you will release my sister in exchange for the King. I am sure that, as the current state of Narnia is, your reward will be much greater than the return of a bastard and a slave."

The Emissary swallowed nervously, though, this time, Edmund thought, he did not seem so frightened of Edmund or his country than the man standing before him. "Agreed," he said finally, though there was a catch in his voice that made Edmund perhaps just as nervous. "Though I require seventy percent of whatever reward the Tisroc, may he live forever, will grant."

The bounty hunter let out a low growl. "You can have all of it. I did not take on this job for the money. I simply want my sister freed."

The Emissary smirked, as if he knew something the bounty hunter did not. "I will hold you to that, then."

And then, from still afar off, but near enough to make the hairs on the back of Edmund's neck stand, a voice shouted, "Make way for Queen Susan the Gentle."

The Emissary's eyes widened as they settled on Edmund. "Get him below. Now."

Edmund tensed against the bounty hunter's hold on him, attempted to throw him off despite the fact that his hands were once more bound behind him, Mahir's dagger at his throat, biting against the beating pulse there.

Edmund let out a scream of warning.

The Captain swore, motioning for his men to help Mahir drag the boy below deck, and someone hit Edmund over the back of the head. He saw stars, if only for a moment, but it was enough.

He found himself pushed down the ladder, landing in a crumpled mess at the bottom, and then hands were pulling him to his feet and dragging him past the curious faces of the rowers.

His bounty hunter shoved him against the mainmast, muttering something unsavory under his breath even as he held Edmund down and motioned to the others to move back, lest Edmund have the idea of stealing one of their weapons in a misguided attempt to escape once more.

"Scream again, and you'll find your sister joining you," Mahir hissed in his ear, but Edmund hardly heard the words in his excitement.

He was almost tempted to scream anyway, for he knew that Susan's loyal guards were not far behind her. Still, he could never take that chance with his sister's life. With her freedom.

She was there.

His sister, Susan, was here. She was alive and fine, if her visiting Calormene ships was any indication.

He could see her through the cracks of the ship's deck as clearly as day.

Susan was there, standing perhaps ten paces to the left of him, and Edmund could do nothing but stare at her. Could do nothing but watch as she faced the ambassador and see how worn and tired she seemed. His death had obviously treated her badly, and he felt another wave of guilt rush through him at that thought.

If only she knew. If only she knew that he was standing directly under her, alive and worrying over her. If only he could get some sort of message to her that it was so. If only he knew that, should he scream now and alert her to his presence, they would both be able to make it off the ship in time before they were killed.

Still, she was the most beautiful thing he could ever remember seeing, in that moment, and his hands ached to reach out and touch her. To give her some sort of signal that he was here. He could not, could only hope that his panting breaths were could only imagine what Lucy and Peter looked like, when Susan was not the eye of decorum. For Susan to be overseeing foreign dignitaries was quite common, he knew, but he had ears. That the Ambassador had not even been allowed an audience with the High King spoke volumes, and he was worried.

Of course he was worried. These were his siblings, after all.

For a moment, he thought of calling out anyway, that he probably wouldn't even make the journey back to Tashbaan, wouldn't make it if his siblings attempted a rescue, and surely Susan would rather know he was alive now rather than later, when the Tisroc sent her a part of his body as proof?

Mahir's dagger pressed into the back of his neck, and the bounty hunter hissed, "Don't even think about it, Your Majesty."

Edmund sighed, leaning against the mainmast and ignoring the curious stares of the rowers as they prepared to leave, bustling around him, not one bothering to give him a sympathetic look.

Even if they didn't yet know who he was, which he was sure the bounty hunter would rectify soon if he planned on keeping his own life, Edmund still had the pale skin of a barbarian, and was therefore of no interest to them other than monetary. And as they were on the ship of the Ambassador to Narnia, they had to know they would never see a penny of such money.

He wondered that the bounty hunter trusted that he wouldn't shout enough not to gag him, as he had done on their journey here.

"The High King sends his regrets," Susan continued above, in that graceful, beautiful tone, and oh, how Edmund had missed her voice, "but he cannot see you off."

"See us off, Your Majesty?" the slimy emissary asked, and Edmund could hear the smile in his voice. As if his sister were telling a bad joke.

"I'm afraid that, in lieu of the death of the Just King, Narnia is closing all of her ports until such a time as we feel sufficiently able to mourn his passing within the presence of others. As it is," she said calmly, linking her fingers together in what Edmund knew was a nervous habit of hers, "we wish to mourn amongst ourselves first."

A terrible excuse, one so bad he couldn't help but wonder who had thought it up for her.

And obviously, the emissary thought so as well, for, behind his oily smile, Edmund heard the unease in his voice as he answered, "Then, O Gentle Majesty, I shall convey the regrets of the Tisroc, may he live forever, that we were not able to provide more assistance to you, in your great time of need. Is there anything you would have me tell him?"

It wasn't until then that Susan's words truly sunk in. Dead. They truly thought he was dead.

Yes, he had seen the dead body the bounty hunter carried with him to the Stone Table, and some small part of him must have realized that it was not with them on their journey to the harbor, but for his siblings to truly believe it was him, dead...

Susan swallowed hard, her voice shaky when she spoke again. "Just that...we thank him for his condolences. In this time of great sorrow, the friendship of Calormen will not be forgotten by Narnia."

"Of course, O Gracious and King Majesty," the emissary bowed. "And may I pass on my own sincere regrets as to the loss of your young King. Neither will he be forgotten, but will remain a star in the heavens to guide us along this path of life."

Susan breathed out slowly, just enough for Edmund to realize that she was quickly growing bored of this conversation, but not enough for anyone who didn't know her as Edmund did, to notice, and wanted nothing more but to disappear behind Cair's walls. Yes, he knew his sister well enough to see that, even from his terrible vantage point. "Thank you, Emissary. Your words are most appreciated."

And then she was gone, trailed by the small contingent that had seen fit to follow her, and Edmund at least had to thank Aslan that someone had thought to do that in his absence. Ridiculous, the excuse she had offered.

Aslan, it had almost sounded as if they were _begging_ Calormen to find some excuse for war.

And then he could see nothing but the back of her head, and Edmund stiffened, wanting nothing more but to reach out, though she was too far away to touch, wanting nothing more but to scream and alert her to his presence.

Mahir's dagger, still pressed against his throat, effectively squashed that thought. He would be dead before Susan even figured out where he was, if she even heard him. And the Emissary's men would not take kindly to having their scheme found out, and, as long as Susan was still on the ship, she would not be safe from their scheming, either.

He wasn't supposed to be here. If it weren't for his own running mouth, he wouldn't be, Edmund reminded himself morosely. After all, he had been the one to tell Mahir who he really was, when the man had had no idea before. Well, he might have had an idea, but that did not assuage the guilt in the pit of Edmund's stomach.

And then his sister was gone, and Edmund slumped, Mahir's dagger pulling away when the bounty hunter realized he was no longer in danger of yelling out.

Edmund hardly noticed when the blade was no longer digging into his neck. Hardly noticed when Mahir, with a surprising gentleness, wiped away the small trickle of blood it left behind.

It was not so long after when the oily ambassador slumped down into the belly of the ship, surrounded by servants and gazing at Edmund with a studious expression.

Mahir cleared his throat awkwardly, still clutching to Edmund's elbow as if he thought the young man could escape being locked in the hold. Well, perhaps he could, in a different time, but not with the amount of rowers and guards down here, to ensure his inability to escape.

Not with Susan still making her exit up above, weighing on his conscience if he tried.

And then it was gone, the Ambassador turning away without another look at them.

"Captain!" he shouted, and the Calormene Captain of the Riveiosa scrambled down below deck at the call. "We make all haste for Tashbaan." He eyed Edmund. "Lock him up somewhere more secure, but quickly, before the Narnians realize that their little king is not so dead as they think."

* * *

Lucy woke up sometime during the night, her head ensconced in an ancient scroll about the history of magic in Narnia, the candle that she'd lain on the floor beside her long since having blown out.

At first, she wasn't certain what had awoken her; it was barely light out, and she was alone. The room was slightly cooler than she might have been used to, sleeping in her own chambers, but, after spending a night in the Witch's dungeons, she could hardly complain on that count.

Then she realized that this light wasn't coming from the rising sun.

She looked toward the balcony sharply, eyes widening at what she saw there.

"Aslan," she breathed hoarsely, jumping to her feet and rushing over.

Aslan stood at the edge of the balcony, sad golden eyes meeting hers unblinking, though he made no move toward her. His golden fur shown in the night, and she was reminded for a moment of the time when he had broken free from his bonds, had stood behind the Stone Table and smiled at her, smiled in the face of the death the White Witch had tried to give him.

Then that fleeting moment was gone, and she could only stare, unable to move her feet.

He was too late. And he had not brought Edmund with him, as Lucy had imagined, had dreamed about in the days since their defeat of the White Witch, riding atop Aslan's back, grinning that his siblings had been so worried for him when he had been fine, had been happily with Aslan.

As if she spoke her thoughts aloud, Aslan's gaze saddened, and then he was moving away from her, stepping out beyond the balcony, through the guarding rail. He disappeared into the night like a specter, and Lucy suddenly found herself able to move again.

"Aslan?" she cried out, and then, slipping off her shoes, she ran over to where he had been only a moment before. "Aslan!"

He was gone. Susan might have convinced her, in the morning, that it was all only a dream, and so, when the time for breakfast came and Lucy met her siblings there, she said nothing of what she had seen, though they noticed a certain renewed hope in her eyes that had been absent before.


	23. The Gentle Queen

Edmund hated travelling by ship.

A month ago, they had been just fine, enjoyable even, and he had always looked forward to his and Lucy's journeys to Galma or the Lone Islands. Or even going to Tashbaan with Susan, provided they took the scenic route.

He had never encountered a ship quite like the Riveiosa before. It was a beautiful vessel on the outside, but it was not a Narnian ship, and was heavy and slow, and every agonizing minute spent aboard had him dry-heaving into a bucket or wondering why they hadn't crashed yet.

Mahir was not very sympathetic to his plight. Of course he wasn't; he was gaining much from Edmund's suffering, and likely hadn't given a thought to what would happen to Edmund after he was handed over to the Tisroc.

Not that Edmund was giving that morbid area much food for thought, either. He touched the scar that the Tisroc had given him the last time they'd met and winced, though it long since stopped aching.

Peter would find him. Peter always found him.

The door to his little cell opened then, and Mahir stepped inside, shutting it soundlessly behind him.

Edmund had been placed in this room, rather extravagant, he admitted, for a prisoner, by the Emissary after his sister left the ship. It simply wouldn't do to have him out and about, scouring the ship for some way to escape, and there were no portholes in this room; only the one door leading out to a hall that was guarded.

They were taking no chances with him. No one was even allowed to enter the room, but for Mahir, in the chance that Edmund might find a way to take advantage of them and escape.

His hands were chained above his head to a wooden pole. He had a feeling that he would not be going anywhere for a while, seeing as no one seemed interested in bringing the key when they came to visit him.

Just then, the door opened, Mahir stepping into the room with a wooden plate on which sat half a loaf of bread and a few pieces of dried meat. He seemed more tense than usual, and, after a moment, Edmund realized why.

Amin Tarkaan stepped into the room, looking exceedingly smug as he glanced down at Edmund. "Your Majesty," he wheedled by way of greeting, and Edmund turned his head away in disgust, barely able to look at the man.

Amin did not seem at all offended by this. If anything, he looked amused as he set the food in front of Edmund and motioned for Mahir to unbind him long enough to eat it. "I trust your quarters have been comfortable, so far."

Mahir looked almost...uncomfortable, with the words, though Edmund couldn't imagine why. It was his fault the Just King was a captive aboard this vile ship anyway.

"Just fine," Edmund gritted out, rubbing the circulation back into his wrists before picking up one of the dried pieces of meat and eying it distastefully.

"Is there anything you require?" Amin continued pleasantly, and Edmund thought that he could have pleasantly strangled the man, in that moment.

Instead, he muttered, "Some peace and quiet would not go amiss, I think."

Amin smirked. "I see, Your Majesty. So you enjoy the solitude of this cell more than the pleasure of my company? You Northerners truly are as barbaric as I was always led to believe."

Despite knowing that it could only lead him to further trouble, Edmund could not help but rise to the bait. "Are you so great a fool that you think my brother won't scourge all the lands between Narnia and Tashbaan until he finds me? That what happened last time won't happen again, but in even greater strength this time, so that Calormen will never recover from it? The Tisroc understands that well enough. I cannot believe he would be fool enough to try my brother's wrath again."

The smirk on the man's face disappeared then, and he paled considerably before hissing, "Calormen has had an experience with your brother's wrath once before, yes. But you are dead to your precious brother in this moment, and he will continue to believe you dead until the Tisroc, may he live forever, informs him otherwise. And then your brother will pay any price to get you back, knowing that a Calormene saved you from death."

Edmund snorted. "A Calormene did not save me."

The Emissary paled again, glancing at Mahir once more before stalking out of the room, slamming the door behind him loudly.

Edmund released an audible sigh of relief as he left before turning to Mahir in annoyance. He'd been cooped up for too long; this man the object of most of his wrath. If the bounty hunter hadn't found him, he'd realized while being shut up in this room, he would have made it back to Cair easily enough by now. Would be home with his family, all right in Narnia...

"Do you even know who you're working for?" Edmund asked, unable to help himself, only to be submitted to the bounty hunter's stony glare.

"A very powerful man, who can get me what I want," he answered coldly, grabbing Edmund's wrists and shoving them into the manacles none too gently.

Edmund didn't bother to resist; he wouldn't get far if he tried to escape. After all, a whole hull full of rowers and overseers, as well as all of the sailors on deck, stood between him and swimming back to Cair.

"Amin Tarkaan is one of the most volatile, oily men I have ever had the displeasure of meeting," Edmund said. "You shouldn't trust him for a second."

"Are you giving me advice about my kidnapping of you, Your Majesty?" Mahir asked with a smirk. "One would think you were worried about me."

"I trust you more than I trust him," Edmund muttered through gritted teeth. "And if it comes a choice between finding myself your captive or finding myself his, I might choose the former.

"I'm flattered," the bounty hunter remarked dryly. "Though I wasn't aware that you had a choice, in this situation."

"He might just gut me before we reach Tashbaan for that time I stole his horse," Edmund muttered under his breath as the bounty hunter scooped away his mostly uneaten food.

Mahir lifted a brow. "You stole his horse?"

Edmund looked away. "It's a long story. He hasn't exactly forgiven me for it."

* * *

Breakfast was not a charming affair that morning, two days after the departure of the _Riveiosa_ from Cair Paravel. Susan almost regretted insisting that her siblings join her for it.

But she needed to be near them, hated that both of them seemed to be pushing her away these days, lost in their own grief.

Peter spent his days pacing in the Throne Room, or otherwise sitting upon the throne and glaring at anyone who had a grievance, and Susan was quickly growing tired of this attitude, though she still tried to be understanding.

But he came to her, in the evenings, broken and crying for the brother that they would never see again, and Susan was reminded at these times why Aslan had named her the Gentle, as she held him and told him that all would be well.

She was not used to comforting her brother so. That task had always fallen to Edmund, or, sometimes, Lucy.

And in the morning, her brother would be almost unrecognizable once more, a mask falling into place over his worried features, his body tense and

Indeed, Lucy came in late, black circles under her eyes a testament to how little sleep she had gotten in the library the previous nights, though she'd seemed happy enough at breakfast She sank down next to Susan, smiling a strange smile that brought worry to her sister's eyes, the same smile she wore yesterday, and then piling her plate with a few pieces of warm bread and jam.

Susan sighed. "Did you...you appear to be feeling better now, Lu," she said finally, tentatively gazing at her younger sister.

Across the table from them, Peter's place was still empty, and a sinking feeling in both girls' hearts told them that he was unlikely to join them for the morning break of fast.

It was beginning to scare Susan more than her sister's seclusion in the library. Peter was...understandably shaken by this whole ordeal, but where Lucy locked herself away and would see no one but her siblings and Mr. Tumnus, Peter sat upon his golden throne and stared at the throne that had once belonged to the Just King, listening to matters of state with a halfhearted carelessness that suggested he would much rather be doing anything else.

He was waiting, he told her. Waiting for Aslan. Nothing else mattered until Aslan appeared and explained how they were to get through this.

She understood that they all needed time to heal, especially after the horrific condition in which they had found Edmund's body, but this...They had a duty still, to their country. And Susan was not going to let her siblings shirk from it, not going to let them place all of the weight on her shoulders forever.

She was in just as much pain as they. Narnia was as vulnerable as ever.

Susan hated this feeling. Hated the resentment growing in her toward her siblings.

Hated most of all that she knew it was not their need for solitude, for her to do the work, that she resented.

"Much better," Lucy said, in the same chipper voice she used to have, before all of this.

Before Edmund...

"You look very tired," Susan answered softly, not quite certain if she wished to broach the topic after the disaster of their encounter the previous afternoon. "Have you been getting enough sleep, locked away in that library?" she tried to make her voice sound cheerful, to some extent.

But before Lucy could answer, a side door to the dining hall swung open, and Peter walked in, effectively quelling all of Susan's fears for her sister, replaced by her worry for her older brother.

Peter sank into the chair across from them in silence, only glancing over at the empty chair beside his own for a moment before rubbing at his eyes and reaching for some food rather indiscriminately.

Susan noticed with some trepidation that Peter only grabbed a handful of fruit and a piece of bread before downing most of his tea in one gulp.

"Lune's pledging soldiers to the sea borders and in the mountains," he said, in a dull voice that Susan had never heard from him before, as he bit into some of the fruit and it dribbled down his chin. He wiped at it with the back of his sleeve. "To ensure that we're protected from any threats. We're more vulnerable than ever now."

Thank Aslan King Lune was still helping them, even if he had returned to Anvard. Susan would have to send him some of those Calormene gifts, as thanks.

"I'll be in the healing wing today," Lucy said, still smiling that strange smile she had been sporting for too many days now, and Susan was getting genuinely worried that there was some sort of poison laced in the pages of those books she poured over so diligently.

But then she heard her younger sister's words, and couldn't suppress a grateful smile. "That's good," she heard herself saying. "I'm glad you're getting back to it."

Peter's hand clenched into a fist, and then relaxed. He took another bite of the bread.

"I thought it was time I stopped moping about in the library," Lucy said, with a shrug. "I'm not getting anywhere with my research, at any rate. Ed...Edmund was always so much better at this sort of thing than I."

Susan swallowed, glanced at Peter out of the corner of her eye. "Well, there are many who treasure your skills as a healer, Lu. And I think it would be good...to go back to something that you enjoy."

Lucy didn't dignify that with a response, and Susan was almost glad for it.

"The Fell Creatures," Susan said abruptly, when the silence between them grew too thick.

Edmund would have thought of a slightly more cheerful topic of conversation.

Peter glanced up then, sharply, and Susan missed that look from her brother. She swallowed hard.

"The Council has put forth the terms of surrender," she went on, ignoring the way Lucy suddenly paled and glanced at her older siblings as if they were doing something wicked, rather than cleaning up a war. "They believe that, in light of what happened the last time Narnia turned their backs on them, we should treat the Fell Creatures with mercy, so that they are not inclined to be angry with us or side against us in the future."

"Angry with us?" Peter spat then, eyes glinting. "They killed our brother and sided with the White Witch after they used dark magic to resurrect her. Out of the two sides, I don't think they have the _right_ to be angry with us."

Susan was not deterred. "Nevertheless, something other than what we did last time must be done if we do not wish for some kind of horrible repeat, if it is indeed possible. We should not make a decision just yet, based out of anger, without first listening to the Council's words on it."

"Susan, they killed Edmund," Peter grit out.

Susan swallowed. "I know."

"The only mercy they'll see from me is the edge of a sword for it. I can't...I won't let them get away with that," Peter said, voice very soft and young sounding then.

Susan sighed. Perhaps she should have waited to broach this subject with her brother until he was of more sound mind on the matter. They all grieved, and yet something had to be done, and soon. "That's not who we are, P-"

"I saw Aslan two nights ago," Lucy blurted out then, her voice loud in the otherwise silent room, and causing Susan to jump in surprise.

Peter turned to her, eyes wide. "What?"

"I saw Aslan," Lucy repeated, as if merely commenting on the weather. "In the library."

Peter jumped to his feet before Lucy could add, "He didn't stay long, but he was there. We are not alone. We never were," she said those last words as if just realizing them for herself for the first time.

Susan spun to her. "Are you sure?" she asked, and if either sibling noticed that her voice was a bit shaky, they said nothing of it. "Are you sure you saw Aslan, and weren't dreaming? And if you did, why didn't you say anything earlier?"

"I did, Susan. And, well, as I said, he was only there for a few moments, in the middle of the night," Lucy went on, though she was still smiling over the fact that she had seen him at all. "Then he vanished. I didn't...I wasn't sure if I should mention it, if...he wasn't coming back soon to prove it anyway."

Peter pushed out his chair then, moving past them and throwing open the door he had just come through without so much as taking a bite of his food, presumably headed toward the library.

Susan frowned, and then chided her younger sister, "You shouldn't have gotten his hopes up like that for a mere dream, Lu."

"But I wasn't dreaming, Susan, I saw him!" Lucy insisted, eyes widening at the thought that her sister thought she was making up a tale.

Susan shook her head, looking at Lucy with something in her eyes that vaguely resembled pity. Her words came as if from far away. "Lucy...you were in the library for three days in a row. You were barely sleeping...We're all worried about you..."

"Peter isn't," Lucy muttered under her breath, taking another bite of her bread and refusing to meet Susan's eyes.

"Is that what this is about? Trying to gain Peter's attention? Oh, Lu-"

"No, that isn't what this is about!" Lucy snapped angrily. "But he knows that Aslan hasn't abandoned us. He knows, Susan, and I don't understand why you refuse to believe in him!"

"Because he let Edmund die!" Susan shouted, and, as soon as the words were out of her mouth, her face colored with guilt, but, despite the embarrassment she felt from admitting the words aloud, she didn't dare retract them. Instead, she slumped in her seat, wiping at her eyes. "He abandoned us to the Witch, and because of him, Edmund is dead," she whispered through clenched teeth.

Lucy stared at her. "Oh, Susan," but when she leaned forward to embrace her older sister, Susan jumped to her feet, brushing down her robes and staring down at stained hands.

"I'll be in my chambers if anyone has need of me," she said finally, and made her quick exit.

Lucy stared sadly after her.

But it was not to her chambers that Susan's feet eventually took her.

She hadn't gone down to the crypt since her meeting with Lucy in the library, when Lucy once again insisted that this body did not belong to her brother.

And she had to be sure that it was indeed her brother, before she could return to this body. Some part of her demanded that she know, for certain, before she cried over his body, even if Lucy's doubts were so unbelievable, even to her.

For Susan wanted to believe Lucy's words. Wanted, more than anything, to know that Edmund was still alive.

She could understand well why Lucy refused to believe he was dead.

But the proof lay before her, interred in a sole stone tomb, and Susan couldn't help but think of how much Edmund would have hated that, knowing that his body had been placed inside a stone prison.

Couldn't help but think that it would have reminded him of the White Witch, of her ability to turn her enemies to stone.

She had almost protested, the day it was done. Peter had been distraught, hardly thinking about the implications as the funeral dirge swept through Cair Paravel, as the healers washed the body and put it away.

She hadn't wanted to add to his growing feelings of guilt and grief, and truly, hadn't had a better alternative, at the time. Lucy was inconsolable, refusing to believe the body belonged to her brother, and so not very thoughtful as to what might be done with it.

Susan swallowed hard, shifting forward until she stood directly in front of the tomb, hand going out to touch the stone coffin in which lay her brother.

Edmund.

The tears came then, as she'd known they would, and she was glad to be alone, here. Glad that there were none to witness her like this, other than a few other filled coffins, to witness what a few simple words from her sister had reduced her to.

There were others buried down here, those who had perished during the first battle with the White Witch, and those who had perished during this one. Those who had fought in tourneys and been killed before Lucy's cordial could revive them, or those who had been close friends of the Four and interred down here because of it.

The bodies from Before, from the time when monarchs ruled over Cair Paravel and the White Witch did not, were dust and ashes now, and Susan's greatest fear was that, when she next came down to mourn her brother, his body would be reduced to the same fate.

For a moment, she thought of opening the coffin and looking down at her brother's face, mangled and unrecognizable though it was.

She could not stop thinking about her final moments with him, alone in that tent while she worried whether he would make it until they found Lucy's cordial. Worried as he cried out Peter's name, and not hers, not Lucy's. He'd only wanted his older brother in that moment, the one who always fixed everything, and Susan felt utterly useless as she squeezed his hand and waited for the raging battle outside to come to an end.

She'd never felt so useless in all of her days.

And then he was gone, stolen from her by the White Witch, and Susan had been unable to do anything to stop her. Had been unable to save her brother in time.

And Aslan had not come.

She sniffed and, with shaking hands, lifted the coffin's lid before she could convince herself not to. It was heavier than she'd thought it would be, and she managed only with some difficulty to lift it until she no longer needed to hold it up, bracing the lid against the near wall and gazing down at her brother's corpse.

The healers had done what they could, in their attempts to turn the dead boy's corpse into the Just King that they all remembered. His skin had been cleaned, body placed in royal robes rather than the rags he'd been wearing when they found him.

But she still couldn't recognize in him the boy that she remembered, sweet, wise Edmund, and before, the terror from England that she'd still loved. She couldn't see in him the young man he'd slowly become while ruling Narnia. The King who always remembered to bring Lucy sweets from Archenland when he visited, or dried flowers from the Western Wood. Who sparred with Peter on the training grounds when he was in a rage, and no one else could reach through to him without fear of losing their heads. Who held Susan when she cried over her latest suitor, a thing her other siblings seemed unable to understand.

The body was in a gruesome state, and Peter had hardly been able to look at it for long, but Susan found now that she could not tear her eyes away without them tearing up once more.

When she finally closed the coffin and wiped her nose on a handkerchief before taking her leave, Susan's face was clear and pale once more. The Gentle Queen that she needed to be for the world above.

She hadn't been able to save her brother, but some part of her, the part of her that was not gentle at all, but still a Queen, took satisfaction in the fact that she had been the one, in the end, to avenge him. To strike the killing blow against the White Witch when she usually could hardly stomach the thought of killing another living creature.

And though she might have preferred it to be Aslan, once upon a time, for him to come and save them at the last moment, as he always did before, now, she was glad of it. Glad that she'd had the chance to avenge her brother, in this small way.

* * *

Mahir left the little King bound to the main mast, in the bowels of the ship, hands and feet both chained this time. It was a wonder to him how the boy, for that was what he was, a boy king, rather than the man Mahir had imagined the Just King to be, was able to sleep in that position, but when he had left the little king, he had been sound asleep for some time.

Perhaps the rhythmic rowing of the men had lulled him into sleep.

It certainly hadn't done so for a man used to spending his days in the desert, or in the mines. Though he supposed that the things that helped him sleep might have seemed just as strange to the boy.

The Tarkaan stood leaning against the bow of the ship, not turning as Mahir sidled up beside him. In his hands, he held a raven, the creature cawing at him in an attempt to free itself, even as the Tarkaan bound a missive to its foot.

Then the creature was set free, letting out one more caw before starting its journey South. Mahir knew better than to comment on this, and stayed silent until the raven had melted into the dark night into which it flew.

Moonlight lit the sea, casting eerie shadows as both men stared out at the glistening waves in silence, the only sound about them the rowers below and the men still working on deck.

"I see that my sister is not with you, O Promise Keeper," Mahir said finally, when the silence between them grew too thick for comfort. "I hope that you did not leave her in your home unattended, for she can find mischief where she will if left alone too long."

The Tarkaan was silent for only a moment, before turning with an eyebrow raised in anger, lips set into a firm line. "I do not believe, O Hunter of Men, that I saw my boy with you, when you bartered your way onto my ship and out of a country that will now most certainly want both of our heads."

The bounty hunter dipped his head at this. "But I brought you a far greater prize, and I think not even you could disagree on that count."

The Tarkaan turned away then, but not before Mahir saw the expression of pain in his face, his eyes wet and clearly so in the light of the moon. "I did not want King Edmund the Just, I wanted..." he paused then, as if he could not articulate the words he would say.

Finally, with a defeated sigh, he said, "But it doesn't matter now. I waited for some time for you to return with the bastard in exchange for your sister's life. I believe that there are many, even the Tisroc, may his Most Gracious Majesty live forever, who would say that, indeed, I waited even longer than most would have."

Mahir stiffened at these words, reaching for the knife at his boots. "What have you done with my sister?" he demanded, voice icy.

The Tarkaan flicked a fingernail into the sea carelessly. "She is dead." He glanced at Mahir with a cruel smile. "I am a wealthy and impatient man, and grew tired of waiting for your continued failure."

Mahir could hardly hold back a growl at these words, fingers clenching around the very same knife he had held to the Just King's neck not so very long ago. But he did not strike, not on a ship where the Emissary's word was as weighty as the Tisroc's, may he live forever, in Calormen.

"What did you expect, from the length of time that it took you to find the boy, and in your failure to do so? Just because you have brought me another prize...yes, I am sure we can come to another agreement, but not the original, as you did not bring what I asked for. And, I believe I did you a favor, Hunter of Men. Your sister was an unwanted weakness, after all, and I merely rid you of it."

Mahir's teeth ground together, knife suddenly pressed against the Emissary's neck. "You will pay for the mistake of killing my sister with your own life," he hissed, and had a moment of deep satisfaction as blood began to well beneath the blade. "We had a deal."

It did not last long. In a few moments, the Captain's keen eyes moved from the Wheel, finding Mahir and the Emissary and causing him to frown. A reminder that, should Mahir do anything, he would be killed as well.

The Tarkaan smirked. "Kareema, I believe her name was?" He pretended not to notice as the blade cut deeper into his throat, only smirked at the look of distress on the bounty hunter's face.

"A pretty thing. Well, I suppose it is of no matter. Just as you aren't. Do you honestly believe that, should you kill me, the Tisroc will not simply exact justice on you for killing his favorite emissary on his own ship, and then take the Just King for himself? You are a fool if you think anything else." His lips twisted into a cruel smile. "No, you will be satisfied with the amount of payment I originally offered, and the realization that you should be quicker on your next job."

Mahir's hand shook, but the knife did not cut deeper into the Tarkaan's skin. Instead, he finally pulled it away, wiping the blood off of the blade and onto the Tarkaan's fine robes. The man let out a gasp as the blood instantly stained his clothes, before wiping his tanned hands on them and threatening, "You have come close to taking my life once, bounty hunter. Do not think that I will make the mistake of allowing you to do so again."

Mahir bit down hard on his lower lip. "Of course, O Merciful One. I will not make _that_ mistake again."

* * *

Lucy found Peter in the library, standing at the balcony and staring listlessly toward the Eastern Sea. She sighed, moving next to him and leaning her head on his shoulder, though he had yet to acknowledge her presence, and she didn't try to break the silence.

She had almost gone after Susan, before deciding that her sister would be better off without her words. Whatever Lucy seemed to say these days only seemed to aggravate Susan further, no matter how she tried to give her sister hope.

Susan didn't want hope, it seemed. And, Lucy supposed, in her mind, it was a useless thing. It had not saved Edmund, after all.

Lucy could remember a time, not so long ago, it seemed now, when she had watched Aslan walk away into that Sea, disappearing even as Mr. Tumnus attempted to comfort her, telling that he would return.

Because Aslan always returned, when Narnia was in need of him, and Lucy couldn't believe she had ever doubted that for an instant, even if he had yet to make himself known to any but her.

"Is this where you saw him?" Peter asked, voice faint, as though he were trying very hard simply to remember to breathe.

Lucy nodded.

"Why haven't I?" Peter demanded then, voice suddenly hopeless as he turned to her. "I've been waiting ever since...but why hasn't he made himself known to us, Lucy? Why didn't he come sooner, to fight the Witch?"

"I...I don't know, Peter," she whispered hoarsely. "I wish that I did. But we have to have faith that there is a reason."

Peter snorted derisively. "Susan doesn't." He bit his lip. "I didn't realize...not until breakfast this morning. She's given up, Lu. She won't say anything, because she doesn't want us to worry, but she...she's lost her faith, in Aslan, I think. And I don't know that she isn't wrong to do so." He huffed. "Where is he?"

Lucy didn't answer him for a while, partially because she wasn't sure that she had an answer for him.

"Have you, too?"

Peter startled at her words. "I...don't know. I keep expecting him to show up at any moment, but I'm afraid...What can he do now? Now that Edmund is...dead." He breathed the last word, as if it took the last of his reserves to say it.

"Oh, Peter," Lucy whispered, and leaned against him once more.

It was not for some time that either of them spoke again, and when one of them finally did, Lucy was surprised to find that it was Peter. He seemed trapped in a melancholy these days that none of them were able to pull him from.

"I'm going to deal with these Fell Creatures, Lu," he whispered hoarsely, and Lucy stiffened at the words. "And I'm not going to listen to the Council about it." He swallowed hard. "I can't. Edmund...I just can't." He looked down at her, eyes shining with tears. "I hope you can forgive me for it, someday."

And then he was gone, leaving the library with swift, staccato footsteps, and Lucy was alone in the library once more.

She stared after him for a moment, unsure whether or not she should go after him or leave that to Susan, who, at least, seemed to agree with her on that account. And besides, she wasn't sure that she could change his mind, from the tone of his voice when he'd spoken.

Then she turned back to her books.

She had come to the point where the books were vague and mostly unhelpful in her little quest, but at least they brought her some meager comfort, she supposed. Knowing that Edmund had once poured over them, and that she just might find something, if she continued to search.

She didn't remember falling asleep, body curled almost protectively around the book she held, but when she did wake, with heavy eyelids crusted over, Lucy gasped in surprise, jumping to her feet.

All of Susan's doubts and Peter's fears vanished from her mind then, and her face split into a grin as she ran forward. "Aslan!"

This time, he did not disappear at the exclamation.


	24. The Fire King

"Aslan!" she cried, running out to the balcony and throwing her arms around his great mane. The Great Lion let out a choked laugh as the force of her embrace pushed them both back against the balcony. "I knew you would come back. I knew it."

Aslan laughed at her enthusiasm, running a paw down her back comfortingly, and Lucy leaned into the touch, wanting, needing someone to provide the comfort that Susan and Peter seemed remiss to offer these days.

"I knew you hadn't abandoned us," she whispered hoarsely.

At these words, Aslan's hold on her suddenly slipped, his eyes once more sad and shadowed with some unnamed emotion that it made Lucy flinch to look upon.

"You didn't, did you?" she asked, voice suddenly much quieter as a hint of trembling swept into it.

The Great Lion did not answer for a long time, only staring down at her sagely. When he finally did speak, it was with a voice so exhausted that Lucy hardly recognized it as his own. "Much has changed in the West of late, my daughter."

The words were hardly satisfying, after all this time. "What does that even mean? Where have you been? Why didn't you come sooner? Susan has all but..." she couldn't say the words, then, her throat suddenly clogging. "And Edmund..."

Instead of answering, Aslan's expression turned even more sorrowful as he said, "Tell me what you've learned of the White Witch."

Lucy blinked in confusion at the order, the words so strange that she couldn't help but eye the Great Lion in confusion, wondering if this really were just a dream. "I...I've been reading about her," she confessed softly, glancing down at the scroll in her hands and suddenly feeling rather foolish. "About how she first came to be in Narnia. Ed...Edmund used to read about her a lot, before. He said it helped him to understand."

"I know, child."

Lucy glanced up, eyes steeling with determination. Surely, if Aslan was asking this of her, she had found something in her reading, or perhaps it was because she had missed something. In any case, it had to be important for him to speak of it now. "She is not Narnian. The Calormenes and Archenlanders feared her when she first overtook Narnia, because they think she is a demon, and she ruled Narnia for a hundred years of winter after the Great Rebellion."

Aslan nodded sagely. "And what else?"

Lucy quirked a brow. "Why am I reciting history books, Aslan?" Her voice quivered. "Why won't you tell me what's become of my brother?"

Aslan gave her a sad look. "They are one and the same, dearest child. What else?"

And Lucy could not help the shaking in her hands which matched her voice as she hurried to answer, "She was here at the dawn of Narnia's creation. Brought here by...others, but not by the will of the Emperor-Over-the-Sea. She had magic, and was powerful, but still had to abide by the Deep Magic, because it runs through every world, not just this one. Aslan, please-"

"She was not of this world, child," Aslan continued her litany, seeming to realize that she was no longer capable of doing so, "and neither was her own magic, though it was bent to the laws of the Deep Magic when she came here. It is a powerful thing, the magic that contains her, of a kind that not even I could dispel. It is why she was able to sustain herself for so long, and why, only by invoking my name could Peter kill her."

Lucy let out a sigh, slumping against the balcony and staring out at the sunrise. Where, not so long ago, she would give anything only to gaze upon Aslan and perhaps have him answer her long-awaited questions, she could hardly bring herself to look at him now.

"Aslan, this is interesting, but I've already read most of this these last few days, and knew some of it before. Please, just tell me. Am I right? Does Edmund still live?" she was pleading now, but she no longer cared. She had to know. She had to be right.

Edmund had to still be alive. He couldn't be that boy down in the crypt. He simply couldn't.

"After she was killed in the Battle of Beruna, her faithful learned of certain...holes in the Deep Magic. Ways to bring her back to life. They would have gladly done so before now, but it wasn't a Fell Creature that she needed," Aslan said softly, still ignoring Lucy's question, though he looked rather pained to do so. "To return to the land of the living, Jadis required the blood of a human sacrifice. They brought her that, and she was brought back to life, to bring harm to Narnia once more."

Lucy blinked in disgust. In all of her reading, she had not come across _this_ tale. She couldn't help but wonder if Edmund ever had.

Aslan continued, not looking at her now. "But what they did not know, and what she did, was that, in order for her to remain in this world without fading once more into death, for blood magic is a strong thing, she required the blood of a traitor, as she had while she was living. All of their blood. If she could not find such a being, she would fade into the Void once more."

"That's why she needed Edmund to die," Lucy said softly, covering her mouth with one hand. "But...then, how, if Peter killed her...?"

"Edmund is a traitor to Narnia no longer," Aslan said solemnly. "He was absolved of his sins before the Witch was killed for the first time, and this time, she was merely a shadow of her former self. The Witch failed to realize the power of forgiveness, and it was ultimately her downfall, for she could not take a life that did not belong to her while she lived a second was destined to die soon after, had not your brother killed her."

"But then..." Lucy bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting blood. "The boy? The one whom she turned to stone?"

Aslan's eyes saddened. "Whether he knew what his actions would unleash, the child betrayed his world by bringing her back to it. However, the Witch was unable to kill another soul that was not already one of her own, while she was here. The child was the only life she took with her own hands while she was here, and did not rather turn to stone."

Lucy swallowed, tasting blood, the question she truly wanted to know on the tip of her tongue, and yet she found it so difficult to ask, now. "And Edmund?"

Aslan gave her a calm look. "I believe I've already told you what you want to know, Child."

Lucy finally felt hope bubbling into her heart. "But, where is he? And will you come and tell Peter and Susan what you've told me? They didn't believe me, when I'd told them that I saw you."

Aslan's eyes grew sad then. "You will find your brother soon enough, dear one. But I cannot. There were many turned to stone by the Witch during her time in Narnia, and I must go to them now."

Lucy wilted. "But...They won't believe me."

Aslan's eyes twinkled then, surprisingly filled with mirth. "I think that, this time, they might."

"I will return."

And, once again, he vanished.

If Lucy were of the disposition to do so, she might have cursed under her breath then. Instead, she simply sighed and hurried off to find her siblings. Even if Susan didn't believe her, she could hope that Peter might. And if neither did, well then, she would simply have to find Edmund on her own.

* * *

Ailyan could feel the cold stares of the loyal Narnians as he made the painful march up to the throne room, knew that, whatever headway loyal wolves had made since the first death of the Witch, all faith in them had been lost now.

And he couldn't say he blamed them. But if these loyal creatures were not going to let him pass, and soon, he was not going to be pleased. And neither, he thought, were they. What he had to say was in their best interest, after all, and he was risking his neck to let it be known.

The High King was all that he'd imagined the boy would but and nothing he'd thought he would be at all. He slouched in his throne as though it were a couch, rather than made of solid gold, staring dispassionately down at his fingernails while the creature before Ailyan in line - a young sparrow, needing a new nesting area for her young after the White Witch tore down so many trees in the Western Wood - continued her pleas.

His sword, Rhindon, the weapon that had killed Maugrim and terrified so many of Ailyan's old pack, hung at his side, sans its sheath, and Ailyan wondered if this was on purpose, that the Magnificent King was planning on using it today at the slightest provocation.

The two youngest monarchs were not in attendance. One for obvious reasons, Ailyan thought grimly, reminded of how he had abandoned the boy when he needed help the most, and the other likely too young to understand what was going on. These monarchs were children, after all.

Finally, the Queen to Peter's left, younger and yet with a serene beauty that reminded Ailyan eerily of the White Queen, as his mind chose to remember her, before the horrors of her reawakening, pressed down tightly on the High King's arm and turned to the sparrow with a benevolent smile, "Of course, you and your young Will find shelter in Dancing Lawn. Our dear friends the dryads have kindly welcomed any and all in need of new homes to find shelter there, as well as good food and warmth, for as long as they need to rebuild their homes in the Western Wood."

The little sparrow dipped her head. "Thank you, Your Gracious Majesties," she murmured before backing away, though Ailyan was left unsure what they had been so gracious about.

And then he was moving forward, to the gasps and sounds of disgust and annoyance from all those in the audience chamber.

Ah yes, the Fell Creatures were still negotiating with the King, who had not been very merciful so far in his decisions regarding them, given their most recent defection to the White Witch. He should have remembered that from the last time, he supposed.

A particularly harsh-looking centaur stepped forward, one hand on the hilt of his sword. "Wolf, your kind have a representative negotiating your surrender at this very moment. The High King and Queen cannot be disturbed with more-"

"What I come to say is not on my own behalf, but concerns the High King and Queen nonetheless," Ailyan interrupted, quite aware that he could be killed before he even had a chance to speak.

And what a shame that would be, for them. He was not so certain that his remaining alive after his mate had truly helped anyone, least of all himself.

He was beginning to wonder why he had even bothered to come to these creatures, his _enemies_ , but that thought was quickly replaced by the image of the boy, lying on the Stone Table, covered in his own blood as the White Witch cackled above him with glee.

"How dare you-"

"We would hear what this Fell Creature has to say," the High King interrupted, speaking for the first time that day, and the centaur froze, obviously as surprised as the rest of the creatures in the room, including his sister, the Queen. The High King sat up in his chair, eyes turned to Ailyan. "Speak, Wolf. And you had better make it worth our time."

Ailyan snorted. "It sounds as if His Majesty has already made a decision regarding the fates of those who followed the Witch." He said Witch, for he feared that this crowd would not take kindly to Ailyan referring to her as the White Queen.

He was not here under some misguided belief that his revealing what had truly happened to the Just King would grant the Fell Creatures mercy for their deeds. Quite the opposite, in fact, if he were to reveal all the gruesome details. And he rather doubted he would be allowed to leave, after telling such a tale.

Well, but it didn't matter.

He was only here for his mate. For her memory. Because the boy had looked so like a _child_ , a pup, and had needed protection from _someone_.

The High King all but _snarled._ "Our royal brother is dead. Your kind will not receive mercy from us, but what is due to them as traitors against Narnia."

"No justice either, I presume?" Ailyan asked, though he knew it was in bad taste. But as the guards stepped forward, he drawled, "What I come to say concerns your brother the King."

The throne room, as one, seemed to freeze at the Wolf's words, all perhaps reminded of the last time a Fell Creature had walked into this very room and announced something equally as shocking.

The High King's face twisted. "And what would you have to say about that? We know what the White Witch did to him, what your kind stood by and allowed to happen to our-"

"No, I don't think you do," Ailyan said past a gulp. His courage seemed to grow at the look of shock on the High King's face, though he was unsure if this was because the High King couldn't believe he didn't know, or couldn't believe he had been interrupted.

The Gentle Queen's eyes narrowed, her face morphing into an expression that was most certainly not gentle. "Choose your next words carefully, Wolf, and be sure not to dishonor our beloved brother's death with your words."

He did. "No matter. I swear upon my honor that what I am about to say is the truth." He heard a few choice words about his honor, but ignored them, not breaking eyes with the Magnificent King. "I was there. The night of battle when the White Witch slunk away and abandoned her troops to your superior forces to kill your Just King."

The High King's hands clenched into fists at these words, but no one spoke, all seeming to lean forward in their chairs, wanting to hear. All wanting to know of the last hours of King Edmund the Just, even if they would never admit such aloud.

"He died nobly," the wolf went on, biting out the words as if they pained him. "The White Witch could not defeat him, in the end. His last words were of As...of the Great Lion." Even if he had to admit that his loyalties to the Witch had been lost when she butchered the child as she had, he still did not think he could utter the lion's name without considerable terror of what would accompany the name.

The Gentle Queen closed her eyes at these words, a single tear slipping down her cheek as she shook her head minutely, as if unwilling to believe the words.

The Magnificent, however, continued to glare down at Ailyan. "How?" he demanded. "Did...did he suffer?"

"The Witch's dagger," he breathed, and there were several audible gasps then, for it was much different to see the Just King's body and know that he had clearly died in considerable pain than to hear the events that had led up to that death. "He...was a King to the last."

Those words only caused the Magnificent's face to pale with horror.

The Wolf continued, a bit more shakily then. "After I saw...what she was doing, I...woke up. I could not stand by and let the boy-"

"His Majesty the King," someone corrected behind him, but Ailyan just rolled his yellow eyes and continued,

"So I went for help, someone who might be able to revive him after the Witch left."

"Coward. You will not receive pardon for that! You abandoned him and ran off," was a taunt from behind again, but Ailyan just squared his shoulders and waited for the High King's reaction.

The King was silent for some time, as if he had heard the words but it would take him some time to process them. Beside him, his sister reached out and touched his arm tentatively, as if she weren't sure whether he was angry or actually believed the words; Ailyan could see the skepticism in the faces of many of those gathered. He might well lose his head for coming here and only forcing them through further pain.

No matter. At least he would be reunited with his mate.

And killed by the usurper king? He could think of no more fitting death, for this... _boy_ did not have his loyalty, regardless of what Ailyan was attempting to do for his brother.

"Go on," the High King said then, and the Wolf could hear the desperation in his voice. The plea.

He swallowed thickly. "But when I returned to the Stone Table, to help the boy after the Witch left-"

"Like the coward that you are," he heard one of the creatures behind the Magnificent's throne mutter, but refused to acknowledge that he had.

"-He was not dead."

The Magnificent King leapt to his feet, sword in his hands before Ailyan had the chance to take a frightened step back, and the Gentle Queen, besides raising an arm toward her brother that he ignored, only looked on with wide eyes.

"Explain yourself," The Magnificent demanded archly. "And I suggest you do so quickly."

Ailyan was silent. Then, "Just what I said, Your Majesty. I cannot explain what I saw anymore than you can, but I do know what it is I saw. The boy was dying, or close to it, when I left him to go for help. The White Witch would not have left him while there was the slightest chance that he lived. And yet...when I returned...The boy...he seemed uninjured. He...breathed, as much as I do now."

The Centaur behind him let out an annoyed, "That can quickly be remedied, liar."

"Aslan," he heard the creature behind him in line breathe at his revelation.

"Then where is he?" The Magnificent King demanded, legs shaking, though Ailyan noticed that he took a considerable effort to stop them from doing so. "Why have you not brought him with you," he mused, speaking more to himself than to Ailyan, "for doing so might have granted you mercy at my hand."

Ailyan was just about to answer, when the Gentle Queen did so instead, and, despite her reputation, her words were not so gentle. "Obviously he lies, Brother. He seeks only to torment us further, with his silky words that beggar belief." Her eyes narrowed as they came to a rest on Ailyan. "We will not be fooled by your hopeful words, Wolf, nor are we amused that you saw fit to dishonor our royal brother's memory in such a horrific manner. Clearly you believe yourself to be committing one last act of loyalty for the Witch, by bringing us such pain after she met her end."

Ailyan opened his mouth again, to deny her words, to give his proof that the boy still lived, but, once again, was cut off by the swinging open of a door to the side of the throne room, a lithe young woman running out of it with loud, panting breaths, and a wide smile on her face.

"I _knew_ I wasn't imagining it," she shouted excitedly, seeming to have no eyes for the others in the room, only for her siblings, for Ailyan guessed correctly that this was the Valiant Queen. "Aslan returned to me, Peter, Susan, and he told me that...Edmund's alive!" It seemed she had no patience for decorum in her mood, and, after hearing her words, Ailyan doubted the court could blame her.

The room gasped as one, for, it seemed, most had not believed Ailyan's tale until it was confirmed by the mouth of their youngest Queen, Peter falling shakily back into his throne upon hearing this confirmation of the Wolf's words, and Susan's face going a deadly shade of pale.

"Aslan," Peter echoed the sentiments of the badger behind Ailyan in that moment. Then he turned to Lucy expectantly. "How is this possible? Where has he gone?"

"He...couldn't stay," Lucy said, in a soft voice, as though she realized how this would hurt her tale. "But he told me that Edmund was alive. That...the White Witch couldn't kill him on the Stone Table when he wasn't a traitor to Narnia, and that that was her downfall."

Ailyan blinked at her.

"What of the body we found on the Stone Table?" Susan demanded in disbelief, speaking loudly over the raising voices of the audience chamber. "Whose was it, if not our royal brother, King Edmund's?"

Ailyan stepped forward then, growling when the centaur tried to hold him back. "Perhaps, Your Majesties, if I could shed some more light on the situation."

The youngest Queen turned to stare at him, clearly not having noticed him before, and her eyes widened. "Who are you?"

The wolf ignored her, eyes only for the elder King and Queen. "There was a Man during the battle against the Witch. I led him to the Stone Table because I genuinely believed he would help the Just King. Because I felt...guilty over what the Witch had done to him. He chased me away when the boy woke...but it was most definitely your King upon that Table, and he was most definitely awake when I left."

"You left him," the High King repeated dumbly, too shocked to even turn the words into an accusation.

Ailyan's lips curled into a sneer. "I have sworn no oaths to the usurpers. My faith was always in my White Queen before she returned this last time, and my mate was lost to me forever. I thought only of getting the boy help from one of his own when I saw his sorry state and pitied him it. I owe your kind nothing more than that."

Peter looked as though he were about to seriously contest that, and, indeed, the centaur's blade was now inches from the Wolf's neck, the centaur no longer pretending he planned on letting the Wolf leave this place alive.

"But he has not been returned," the elder Queen pointed out, still looking as though she did not believe the Wolf's story, "and the only Men in the battle were from Archenland, and would have surely done so by now."

Peter's eyes widened in dawning realization. "He's still out there somewhere," he whispered, and though it was meant to be under his breath, the whole of the throne room seemed to hear.

"Who would have to gain from continuing to hide him, besides the White Witch?" Susan demanded, now openly contesting the story as she stared at the Wolf in distrust. "Or one of her Faithful?"

"Exactly, Sister," Peter said, eyes suddenly glittering with a newfound determination. "Who would have gained from taking Edmund, if he were still alive when they found him?"

And with a horrible realization, all remembered the only ones who had managed to land in Narnia before the ports had been closed, the only other foreigners on a ship who had left without complaint when Susan asked them to before they could have an audience with the High King.

Because they already had something far more satisfying than mere information on how vulnerable Narnia was at the time. They had inexcusable proof.

"Oreius," Peter barked then, voice loud and clear in the chamber, "Prepare what soldiers we can. We ride for Calormen tonight."

There were no objections, voiced worries that Narnia had just gone through a brutal war with the White Witch, and did not have the resources they would likely need to mount an attack on Calormen now. No words of caution, that the High King send word to the Tisroc, demanding an explanation, before he make a decision of such magnitude.

For the Narnians remember the Fire King as well as any Calormene.


	25. The Dove

_The Witch held out her porcelain hand, giving him an odd, cold smile that made his very bones feel brittle, even as her eyes twinkled with some unknown mirth. "Edmund," she whispered, shaking her hand a little to remind him that she wished him to take it. "You could be my king."_

_He swallowed hard, trying with all of his might to pull away, but Mahir was there, holding tightly to his shoulders and preventing any sort of escape. "No," he whispered hoarsely, even as the bounty hunter lifted his hand, a hand that held a silver blade. "No!"_

_The Witch's smile grew then, as little beads of blood spotted Edmund's palm, as Mahir forced his hand forward and held it out to the White Witch._

_The Witch leaned forward, clasping his hand in her own, and a bolt of white light followed the movement, slapping through the air and lifting into the sky, before falling back down once more as if to cover the world with the Witch's magic._

_Edmund felt faint, his body slumping back into the bounty hunter's arms as the Witch squeezed the blood from his palm onto her own hand, her shadowy body becoming all too clear._

_When she dropped his hand, Edmund felt a wave of exhaustion pour over him, and it was all he could do not to fall to his knees then._

_Her smile rivalled any that Edmund could remember seeing on Lucy's face, by this point, and his terror mounted. He thrashed against the bounty hunter's hold, even if every sane part of him knew this was useless._

_He could never escape her._

_She would only find a way to return and haunt him again. He knew that, now._

"Damn us all to Tash!" a voice broke through his nightmares, and, though admittedly not the comforting voices of his siblings, Edmund would take what he could get, as long as it woke him from such a nightmare.

As long as it woke Edmund from the vision of her face.

He let out a gasp, sitting up straight from where he had been slumped against the wooden pole Mahir had tied him to, and glancing around. He had to suppress the urge to pull his hands forward to wipe at his eyes, not wanting to chafe his already bruised wrists any further by pulling on them.

And then the ship lurched to the right, bringing Edmund with it, and he cried out as he felt the binds at his wrists dig into the already fragile skin. But the last vestiges of sleep left Edmund's body as he felt the unmistakable sensation of something crashing into the side of the ship. And whatever that something was, it was much too large to be a mere rock, unseen by the sailors in the middle of the night.

"Heave! Faster, you lazy bastards!" that same voice that had awoken Edmund before, came from just outside his little cell, and he almost jumped at the sound of another voice, so close.

The rowers, their loud rowing the steady beat that had helped him to sleep earlier.

He was wide awake.

Waves crashed against the _Riveiosa_ with frightened intensity from that moment onward, jostling its occupants about wildly, causing Edmund to crash to and fro, and he wondered if he was wrong, and it truly was merely an awful storm set upon them.

And then that thing crashed into the _Riveiosa_ once more, and Edmund let out a cry of pain as he was jostled forward, the ship careening forward at a terrible angle; the floor suddenly in front of him, rather than beneath. Screams from above deck filled the air, and then another loud crash against the side of the ship slammed his head against the pole restraining him.

His world went fuzzy, and, for a moment, he was afraid he might pass out, that the ship would sink and his captors would leave him here. Blood gushed from a gash on his forehead.

His manacles were perhaps the only thing preventing him from going through a port hole and into the watery depths. But also, he noted with growing fear, the only thing keeping him locked in place, unable to escape should he need to. Should the ship sink and he be forgotten in the sailors' quests to find their own ways to freedom.

He was frightened, and eager enough to admit it, when he accidentally bit so hard into his lower lip that he could taste his own blood, could feel it gushing down his chin and neck.

He knew that, to the men aboard this ship, he was an important prisoner, important enough that surely someone would come and free him should they need to abandon the ship. But he also knew of the cowardice of Calormenes, in the worst of times.

And yet, with every crash of the waves, with every scared shout from one of the men outside his room, his worry only increased as no one came for him, nor indeed, spared seemed to spare him a second thought in their loud traipsing throughout the hull.

Although he was the King of the West, where sea was scarce indeed, Edmund knew enough about ships to know that this one would not last long in the onslaught of the current storm.

It was not until the bounty hunter returned to his prison and unchained him from the wall, though his hands were still stuck together with a smaller length of chain, that Edmund realized that this was not the onslaught of a storm, or perhaps not totally, but something far worse, easily enough deciphered from the expression on Mahir's face.

"What's going on?" Edmund demanded, even as Mahir pulled him to his feet and pushing him roughly toward the door. Another jarring rock of the ship, and Edmund planted his feet firmly before he would have slammed into the nearest wall.

"Kindly be quiet, Your Majesty," Mahir snapped tersely, and Edmund found himself jerked forward, stumbling along in confusion for a moment, until the confusion found its source; his feet, bare as they were, were surrounded by water.

A water level that was slowly rising, even here, in the bowels of the ship.

They were sinking.

"Someone's attacking us," he breathed the obvious words, ignoring Mahir's snort as he continued to drag him through the room and into another, where the rowers were. They moved frantically, some still attempting to salvage the rowing, while the others ignored this altogether, jumping to their feet in a feeble attempt to abandon ship and ignoring the shout of the boatswain to sit down and row again.

It was no use for them, anyway, to try. Edmund knew well enough the Calormene tradition of using slaves as rowers, of chaining their feet to the aisles so that they would go down with a warship, should it sink, and all chained together, and would not attempt a revolt of superior numbers against their overlords.

And then Mahir was dragging him past the rowers, and Edmund stiffened.

"What about them?" he demanded, gesturing toward the slaves meant to row the ship back to Calormen soil.

The slaves glanced up at Edmund's words, breath catching in their throats even as they stopped rowing, sensing that their duties to the _Riveiosa_ were soon to come to an end, one way or another.

The boatswain let out a shout of anger, and then the other ship hurled into the side of the _Riveiosa_ once more, and he was sprinting toward the ladder, making his way up deck without a glance behind, the keys to the slaves' chains jingling loudly in Edmund's mind, even as he attempted to find his footing.

The bounty hunter glanced dispassionately at the slaves before righting Edmund and giving him another push toward the very same ladder. "Move, Your Majesty."

"But-"

"I do not have the key, Your Majesty, as I had yours," Mahir hissed, close to Edmund's neck. "Do not give these poor souls hope where there is none."

Edmund swallowed hard, glancing back at the men.

He felt indescribable pity, that he could not save them from this fate any more than he was now capable of saving himself, for, even Mahir would allow him the chance to search for the keys to these men's chains, which he strongly doubted, given that Mahir seemed to have no pity for any but this loved one of his, he would not have been able to free all of them in time.

Mahir seemed to feel no such pity, pushing Edmund up the ladder that would lead above deck, and Edmund scrambled up it, a bit of a chore with the chains still wrapped around his wrists, but he somehow managed.

Once he reached the deck, however, he suddenly wished he had stayed below, however implausible his survival might have been. Things on deck looked far more chaotic.

The sailors ran about frantically, several working to free the sole longboat while others yanked at the sails; the rest seemed to have given up on the ship altogether, and were making their way overboard on pieces of wood and rope.

The ship was rammed to the side again, and Edmund slipped and fell on the slippery deck, and then a crack of lightning burst through the air, alerting Edmund to yet another problem the _Riveiosa_ faced. Rain pattered down onto the deck in heavy droves then, slamming into the waves beyond like the crack of a thousand whips.

The night sky lit for only a moment, and Edmund could see familiar landmarks on the distant shore. Another crack of lightning, illuminating the faces of the scared Calormene sailors, and the ship rocked from waves, rather than another ramming.

Edmund's stomach churned as he realized that he may well have faced the White Witch and, by the Grace of Aslan, lived to tell the tale, only to be lost at sea mere days later.

The boatswain, the very same man from below, was suddenly swept by another jarring of the ship past Edmund and Mahir, as she tipped precariously starboard, the man slamming into the mainmast before tumbling overboard, and into the waves with a wrenching scream.

Edmund watched in horror as he fell, where a moment ago he had hated the man for his lack of compassion, bile rising in Edmund's throat even as the _Riveiosa_ attempted to right herself without the guide of her Captain, vanished as the man seemed to be in this moment.

And then he turned to face the other ship, this one so intent on seeing them all drowned.

The _Riveiosa_ was, for all intents and purposes, a merchant vessel; Edmund could see that in every crevice and knock of wood about her.

This other ship, lovely and sleek in all the ways that the _Riveiosa_ was not, was clearly built for one purpose; to be a ship of war. It glided over the stormy waves without hesitation, slamming into the _Riveiosa_ as if she were half its size rather than nearly double, and Edmund had a fleeting image of the other ship's lady, seeming to fly off the prow, before he was knocked off his feet once again.

He was disappointed to realize he did not recognize her figurehead on sight.

Mahir grabbed hold of him this time, keeping Edmund from flying into the mainmast and knocking his head, though he grumbled and cursed even as he did so.

For one happy moment, the _Riveiosa_ was still, and Edmund breathed a sigh of relief, letting out air he knew he would want for later, before turning back to this oncoming ship and squinting hard at it through the rain, in a feeble attempt to decipher whether or not it was Narnian. But then, who else would it be?

"Is it my brother?" Edmund demanded, though doubtfully. He could think of no one else who would wish to ram a Calormene ship, and yet he knew that Peter would not knowingly endanger his life like this.

Unless he thought that Edmund was dead already.

It was not a reassuring thought.

But surely, if Peter had figured out what the Calormenes had done, he was assuming Edmund was still alive.

Mahir didn't answer him, and Edmund felt desperation clogging at the back of his throat.

"Is it Narnian?" Edmund shouted at him impatiently.

It wasn't Mahir who answered.

Instead, a lone, flaming arrow careened through the air, flying out from the rough direction of this enemy ship.

And Edmund barely had a moment to register that it was coming, and that, by Aslan, he should move, but that he hardly could, before the bolt slammed into him, white-hot pain spreading instantly through his body. He heard himself scream from far off, heard Mahir curse rather colorfully in words that would have made Susan blush, and then the world went black.

This blackness only lasted a few moments, Edmund surmised, when a rough hand to his cheek woke him a moment later, to find the bounty hunter standing over him, yelling over the wind and rain for him to wake up even as he pushed him back, out of the range of a dozen more flaming arrows and beneath a small awning to keep them out from under the pelting rain.

The sudden pain in his thigh, dulled in the last moment from his waking, hit him then, and Edmund hissed in a breath of pain, glancing down.

He knew instantly upon the looking that he should not have done so, that he was likely to be sick at the sight of it, but Edmund had never been one for shying away from ugly things, and he looked.

The arrow, shaft and all, was still sticking up dangerously out of his leg, trousers soaked with blood that Edmund was vaguely aware of as his own and scorched away at the area where the weapon had entered by fire, before the bounty hunter (presumably) had put it out.

It was in deep, too deep, and with every twitch of Edmund's leg, every rocking of the ship, Edmund swallowed harshly and fought unconsciousness as the arrowhead brushed against bone which was once solid.

Mahir held a hand out, shouting something that Edmund couldn't hear over all the commotion, but clearly meaning for Edmund to get up, which sounded like an absolutely terrible idea, at this point.

He scrambled back from the man's reach, even as Mahir reached forward and effortlessly pulled him away from the flames now threatening to spread through the rest of the ship, doused in oil as they were.

"Dammit, boy," Mahir snapped then in exasperation, "You can't walk far on that leg, and I need to find the Tarkaan. He'll have found a way off this ship, the scoundrel, soon enough, and if we've brains we'll follow that way."

"Then leave me here," Edmund muttered, because it did not matter anyway. They had tallied too long. It would be much too difficult to make their way off of this ship alive. "Like the poor souls below."

A small crowd had gathered around them, despite the danger on the ship, stood in shock at the sight of the arrow in Edmund's leg.

The wound itself was not so strange a thing. The arrow protruding from it was.

Edmund was too busy staring at the arrow in his thigh to notice, wondering if he could pull it out now without too much damage, or if this would only encourage the blood loss.

Aslan, but he missed Lucy's healing cordial. It always seemed to be on the opposite sides of the world when Edmund needed it most, or so he had surmised from these past few weeks.

And Edmund recognized the insignia on this arrow all too well, even as he tried to deny what his eyes were telling him.

He had seen the make of those arrows too many times fired upon his people, upon Narnians, to _not_ know them on sight, especially when one was protruding from his own leg.

"No," one of the sailors cried out, eyes wide with fear. "No, by Tash's bolt, it's a Calormene ship!"

Bedlam erupted on the deck then, men either jumping voluntarily into the waves or making good use of the lone landing boat, cramming into it and casting the small vessel into the water as well. Edmund would have liked to point out that this would be a good idea, but then Mahir was moving, and Edmund doubted he would be heard above the chaos around them, even shouting.

Mahir pulled Edmund by the wrists toward the Wheel, the lone sailor who seemed to think he could still steer the Riveiosa out of danger, huddled behind the wheel and jerking it spastically in the opposite direction of the warship.

Edmund glared at Mahir in bemusement, though some rational part of him knew that Mahir had no more answers than he. "Why are they shooting at us? And why are they so far North to begin with?"

Mahir ignored him. "Where is the Tarkaan?" he demanded instead, of the man at the Wheel, who seemed to cow at the very sight of him, despite his best intentions of steering the ship to safety.

They were at open sea, in the middle of one of the worst storms Edmund had yet seen in Narnia.

He might as well toss himself over now.

The man paled at the bounty hunter's question. "By Tash, and how should I know? If you want to live, bounty hunter, abandon ship while you still can. She's going down, and that Calormene beauty right there-" he jerked his thumb toward the oncoming ship, "isn't going to be letting up anytime soon. At least, not until we're all good and sunk."

"And why haven't you done just that?"

The man shrugged. "Figure if we can drag this scrap of wood to Archenland, anyone still aboard can at least get the insurers' compensation."

"You won't make it that far," Edmund protested weakly, but both men ignored him, as he'd expected.

Mahir shook his head stubbornly, his grip on Edmund painful and unyielding. "I must find him," he hissed. "Where is he? Where did you last see him?"

Another sailor answered, when this one would not, shouting loudly from across the deck even as he made his escape, "Still holed up in his cabin, most like. Been in there for hours now, with the Captain."

Mahir grabbed Edmund by the arm, yanking him toward the Captain's quarters, on the other side of the deck, and Edmund flailed along a step behind him, casting about nervously for some means of escape.

Whatever deal Mahir had with the Tarkaan, Edmund did not want to stick around and decide the finer pieces of it; he would much rather face the billowing waves around them on the stormy sea than the oncoming charger.

At least the skies did not promise so terrifying a storm, and he was half-certain that he could make his way to shore through it, if he had but a good bit of driftwood to keep afloat on.

But then Mahir was grabbing him by the chains around his wrists again, and Edmund had no choice but to limp after him or risk twisting his leg into further pain than it already was.

As it was, the pain in his leg forced him to focus merely on not screaming.

The Captain's cabin was, surprisingly, empty of the Captain, despite the sailor's words that he would be here.

But the Emissary was there, scrambling for rent pieces of parchment and the little bit of gold that remained, even as the ship sunk around them, even as the porthole at the other end of the cabin rapidly filled it with water. He glanced up in shock when Edmund and Mahir entered.

Edmund could not say that he was entirely surprised.

He didn't have the time to say so, however, when another flaring pain washed through him, and he cried out, going to his knees, which, in retrospect, was not the best idea he might have had, for it only tore at the muscles in his thigh all the worse.

The bounty hunter wasted not a moment then, gripping the arrow by the shaft and, ignoring Edmund's scream, partly from surprise that the man would pull the shaft without first digging out the head, despite their rather limited time, and mostly from the pain this action caused.

And, as Edmund collapsed on the floating floor of the cabin, blood seeping from the wound and breath leaving his body in painful gasps, the bounty hunter slunk over to where the Tarkaan stood, ripping his knife from its scabbard and pressing it to the man's neck before he had the chance to flinch away.

The Tarkaan swore, reaching for one of the chunks of gold he'd had in hand before, perhaps to bash it against the man's head. "I told you before that if you ever held a knife to me again, you'd live to regret it," he warned, but the bounty hunter only smirked, shoving the gold piece away with his other hand.

"I don't think either of us will be living much longer, Your Excellency," he said, voice colder than Edmund had yet heard it, and he was almost impressed.

The knife nicked the man's skin, and Mahir smiled at the bead of blood which followed. "But you're going to die first."

The Emissary's eyes widened fearfully then, and he backed up a step, but had nowhere to go save for under the roaring waterfall now cascading from the lone porthole in the cabin.

"I...didn't kill her," the Emissary rasped then, in a last ditch attempt to save himself, and Mahir glared darkly at him, pushing him underneath the wave of seawater mercilessly. "I didn't kill your Kareema."

Edmund was feeling very near to fainting from the blood loss, and struggled to hear the words, softly spoken as they were.

Mahir chuckled with unhidden disgust. "You are a coward, Sire. You'll die in a few moments at any rate; what does it matter that I kill you now?"

"There is no honor in dying at an assassin's blade. I would rather die at sea, a servant of the Tisroc, may he live forever," the Emissary bit out, sounding for the first time as though he were the honorable man Edmund had never imagined him to be, and, unbidden, he felt a bit of respect for the man. The man who would do anything to find his bastard son, and, failing that, a greater prize.

For, in this moment, Edmund understood what Mahir the Bounty Hunter could not, blinded by his feelings for his sister. That Amin Tarkaan had not just sent a bounty hunter across the world to find his bastard and bring him home before he could spread undue lies about his previous master and sire. He had sent the best to find and bring home his son, his only heir, before the Tarkaan was given the opportunity to die.

The bounty hunter growled then, the knife slicing into the thick skin of the Tarkaan's neck.

"Wait!" the Tarkaan cried out. "I am not lying. I...lied, before," he gasped out, even as blood began to trickle onto his wet robes, dampening them further. "Your sister is not dead, I swear by Tash and all that he stands for. However, she is no longer in my home."

"Give me one good reason why I should believe that for an instant," Mahir snapped. The ship rocked ominously with his words, and Edmund bit his lip, closing his eyes and preparing for the end.

"She...escaped. The night she told me her name, I was intrigued by her, and intended to take her into my bed. But she ran away that night, stupid wench, and my men could find hide nor hare of her. She went into the desert," the words tumbled out in a mess, and Edmund's eyes opened as he heard them.

The knife at the Emissary's throat fell from Mahir's hand. Mahir stared down at the other man shakily, face a dreadful shade of white, even in this terrible light.

"She's alive?" he whispered out.

The Emissary's head bobbed up and down in agreement. "Alive, and, likely, has made her way North by now. She's a stubborn little wench, I'll certainly give her that." And that was when Edmund saw the flash of metal, realized that he had never heard the knife hit the water, but it was too late to give warning. The blade slammed into the surprised Mahir's gut, and Amin Tarkaan twisted it savagely before pulling it free.

Blood gushed from the wound, staining the water below.

"I warned you never to hold a knife to me again, fool," the Tarkaan muttered, and then promptly fell into the water, boneless, the strip around his neck from Mahir's blade thicker than Edmund had originally thought.

Edmund blinked, staring first down at the man, and then at Mahir, and wondering which he felt less sorry for. He had grown to sympathize for the bounty hunter, after all, for his plight, but he was still the enemy. He had still stolen Edmund away from _his_ family, when they might have been reunited days ago.

But Mahir wasn't dead.

The bounty hunter stumbled forward, clutching his stomach before reaching down with surprising ease to lift Edmund from the water. Edmund went silently, though he had to question why the bounty hunter looked for escape now that he had been stabbed, rather than before, when they actually stood a chance against the waves.

Revenge seemed to make its victims do foolish things to achieve what they wanted, he supposed. He had learned that from the Witch, after all.

And then that other ship, the Calormene war ship that was somehow impossibly this far North, slammed into the _Riveiosa_ for a final time.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Edmund demanded, hollowly. A wave crashed against his injured leg, and he flinched, suddenly no longer caring to even hear the answer to his own question.

Mahir laughed hollowly. "I think we both know the answer to that, Your Majesty," he muttered, not meeting the young king's eyes as he bound his thigh. Edmund let out a small cry as the wet cloth tightened around his wound, but Mahir, if he had any compassion for Edmund's pain, had buried it deep.

"You should be using that for your own wounds," Edmund observed, and the bounty hunter snorted in response.

Mahir's wound from the Emissary had not stopped bleeding, and Edmund suspected that there was some sort of poison on the blade to make it so, though the stubborn bounty hunter had not admitted to such a thing. His face was pale from the blood loss; Edmund could see this with every flash of lightning, though not in the dark storm otherwise.

"We should try to make it to shore first," Edmund tried again, but, yet again, the man did not heed his words.

The rock they lay against, which they had found between the shoreline and the wreck of the Riveiosa, provided adequate enough breathing room for the two of them now, especially after the war ship abandoned them there, seeing its job as done when the Riveiosa sank, but Edmund knew that they would lack protection until they made it to shore.

The trouble was, Edmund did not think they were, either of them, capable of doing so, in their current states. It had taken almost all of Edmund's energy to crash against this boulder, and he had been holding onto Mahir for support.

Mahir was bleeding through a wound to the gut. Swimming would not come easily again.

The boulder they clutched to was just large enough for the both of them, just tall enough out of the water to break the waves coming at them from the other side, but certainly not from the lightning above, nor the rain.

They were submerged up to their necks, and Mahir wrapped his wound beneath the water.

Water stained with blood. Bits of wood floated past them, with every wave.

If someone did not come for them, and very soon, Edmund thought that they would either be pulled down into the waves or struck by the lightning.

He wondered which was a more painful way to die, or if he would die from blood loss, or, as he suspected, a poisoned arrow, first.

Mahir continued binding his thigh, undaunted by all of that which worried the Just King.

"Take this," Mahir said suddenly, pressing something metal and cold into Edmund's hand. A dagger, by the feel of it. Edmund could just see it glinting as another flash of lightning broke through the clouds.

Edmund tried to pull back, but Mahir's iron grip on him did not cease, and he found himself unable to. "You'll need it more than I."

Edmund paused at that, swallowing hard. "You should probably.."

A wave crashed against Edmund's legs, cold and far too close, and he let out a yelp of pain, surprised to note that there was _feeling_ in his injured thigh again.

And by Aslan, it _hurt_.

"Promise me," the bounty hunter interrupted, and he was clutching Edmund's hand so hard now that it hurt, that he could see it growing white beneath the water, "promise me you'll find my sister. That you'll find her..." he coughed. "I've done nothing to warrant this task, or your forgiveness, but please..." he glanced up at Edmund hopelessly. "She's my sister."

"Why did you free me, help me?" Edmund demanded, ignoring the way his throat clogged at the bounty hunter's words. His sister. All of this, for his sister.

Edmund spared no delusions that Mahir the Bounty hunter was not a good man. He was, after all, a man who made his profit off the finding of runaways worth money, dragging them back to their masters or magistrates without a second thought, and would have gladly done the same with Edmund, had he been given the chance.

But he had done all of this for his sister, and Edmund was not such a hypocrite as to pretend not to imagine what he might have done for his sisters, if faced with the same dilemma.

"If you escaped sooner, you might have made it, and landing on the Narnian border with me as your hostage will not endear you to my siblings," Edmund spat out, still conflicted. "Why did you help me instead?"

Mahir glared at him. "Perhaps I wanted the pleasure of seeing you die myself, Your Majesty."

"I don't think so," Edmund argued, aware of the other man's growing annoyance. "Tell me."

The bounty hunter was silent for a moment, chest heaving with the last vestiges of his strength, but when he did speak, it was with surprising conviction, and Edmund could do nothing but listen with rapt attention.

He wasn't going anywhere, after all, with this man's iron grip on his hand and manacles.

"That...story," Mahir wheezed out. "The one you told me, about your stealing the Emissary's horse."

Edmund blinked in confusion. "You freed me because I told you a story? You're a terrible bounty hunter, you know."

It would have been amusing, if they weren't both likely about to die.

"No," Mahir shook his head, so hard that, in the man's current condition, Edmund was rather afraid that it would fall off. "No, it was...you spoke of your siblings, in that story, of how they helped you. Your brother and sisters. With such love and devotion, one could not doubt that you love each other, that the bond between the Four of you is as true as any." He swallowed. "Family is important, in Calormen. My...sister and I do not share the bond that you and your siblings have, however, at least not in the same way. What exists between us is duty, duty to our family and to each other, after our mutual hardships, because there was no one left in our family by the end of those struggles."

Edmund shook his head, still confused. "I..."

"I wish that we had something more. That we...truly loved each other, as siblings should. I...don't love her, but I do not know what I would do if the last of my family was killed because of me." He glanced searchingly at Edmund. "Several years ago, it did happen. Our mother was killed, because of my work, because of a mistake I made, and I was thrown into the mines of Calormen for my failure. I couldn't lose her, too."

Edmund bit his lip. "I think you love your sister more than you know," he said softly. "And I think she would understand."

The bounty hunter lifted a brow. "Do you?"

And Edmund, despite the injustices this man had done him, despite the fact that, if the bounty hunter did not let go of him soon, he would also die in these waves, found himself nodding, but not to that question.

It was likely a fool's errand, an impossible request, for even if she had made it out of Calormen and into the North, there was no telling where she might be now.

But he nodded.

After all, he was likely going to die tonight. Mahir was definitely going to.

He hated that he did so. This man had more cause for his hatred than anyone living at the moment, and yet he had seen the pain in the man's eyes when he went to avenge his sister. Knew that Mahir had done all this for her sake, as he'd said.

And couldn't help but think of Lucy and Susan.

It didn't make the bounty hunter's actions _right_ , by any account, yet Edmund _understood_ them better now, and almost pitied him.

In the blistering storm, the bounty hunter couldn't see the motion. "Your Majesty..."

Edmund tore his hand away, wincing as it scraped against the rock and started to bleed, the liquid mixing seamlessly with the crashing waves around them as he managed to sputter out an answer. "I will find your sister, and make sure that she knows what her brother did for her."

The bounty hunter relaxed at these words, leaning his head back against the rock and closing his eyes. A moment later, despite the turbulent seas and the thundering clouds above, Edmund thought he could hear the man's breath leave his body.

And then a wave washed over them both, something hard and painful scraping against Edmund's wound, and Edmund knew no more for some time.

* * *

Waking was more painful than it was the last time, despite the fact that Edmund did so to find himself enveloped in soft sand. He let out a groan as the ache in his leg turned into a steady throb, wondering absently if the leg would have to be cut off before he could make it to Lucy's cordial.

And then a hollow laugh ripped through him, at the thought that he would ever be seeing Lucy's cordial again, after tonight.

It was still night, though nearing the dawn, when Edmund pulled himself up and glanced at his surroundings in bemusement. They did not look familiar, but this could just as well have been because of the bleary sheen in front of his eyes than because he had never been here before.

He stared up at the sky and the slowly vanishing stars for a few moments in an attempt to focus them, multiple thoughts running through his mind as his eyes lit upon a small flurry of wings; not so very far away from him, but too high in the air to determine whether or not they were that of an eagle or a sparrow.

Or perhaps his eyes were simply too cloudy.

The first thought to enter his mind upon the sight was that he might not make it until morning, but this was quickly jumbled aside by half-remembered words, words that he knew he should be thinking of then, that he was reasonably sure had belonged to Aslan, and yet they still did not make sense to him, even as his eyes focused on that bird above him.

The bird soared above him, always above him, not moving from that place in the air even as Edmund did not move from his collapsed place on the ground, and then let out a noise that seemed to Edmund of frustration; that he had not yet arisen.

Then he recognized the bird, or rather, its kind, as it swooped down close to his head, but not close enough to reach out and grab, as if baiting him forward.

And he wondered, even as it flew back up into the far away sky, what in Aslan's name a dove was doing about at this time of night, or so near the commotion of a crashed ship. The little creature should have been startled away by the commotion, not drawn to it.

Aslan's name.

Aslan.

Half-remembered words from an age ago filled his mind then, words he had not been convinced until now were merely part of a dream he'd had. A dream while dead. A dream of Aslan, speaking to him, on the shores of Aslan's country.

A dove. Something about a dove.

Something important, and Edmund was ashamed to discover that he couldn't remember what that was.

His leg throbbed again, and Edmund nearly cried out from the pain of it, but managed to contain it at the last moment. It was then, as he lay panting in the sand of the beach, his leg aching so badly he wondered if he would die before he could pass out, that the words came to him abruptly.

Follow the dove.

And Edmund smiled.

He didn't know what strength he had to do so, but Edmund found himself crawling on hands and one knee, his wounded leg splaying out awkwardly behind him, after the dove, letting the Dumb Creature guide him, as she clearly meant to do, and secretly glad every time that she stopped, as if sentient enough to know that he needed the rest.

They moved slowly, and by the time Edmund had managed to pull himself off the shoreline and up painful, cutting rocks, the sun was already risen in the sky, pink in the sky. Or perhaps red, like blood.

Still, the dove persisted, swatting at his damp hair with her wings every time that he stopped, spurring him on, and Edmund moved with half-lidded eyes, wondering several times why it was so important that he follow this bird. Why he was following her to begin with.

He saw the White Witch at one point, grinning down at him, jeering at his slow progress, and it managed to give him the last push of inner strength that he didn't have after the dove before he collapsed and closed is eyes, reveling in the soft feel of the grass beneath him.

A sound like a meow jerked his head up once more.

The little Kitten stared up at him with wide, unblinking eyes, and Edmund had one spare moment to realize that he was indeed still in Narnia, as he'd always thought. Then he collapsed at the little creature's feet in a heap, ignoring its startled cry as he once again lost consciousness.


	26. Tea with the Nantes'

They found them just beyond Glasswater Creek, about to cross the border into Archenland, ten ragged-looking sailors, trudging through the dirt and wincing at the bright light of the sun, many of them rather worn, salt having dried their clothes to their body in hardened ridges and no doubt making movement uncomfortable.

All Calormene. Sailors, by the look of them. Or, at the very least, recently aboard a ship.

Needless to say, the High King was hardly sympathetic with their plight, as he neared them, an army of Narnian soldiers behind him. "Ho, there," he called out, and the Calormene sailors stopped them, their idea of pretending not to see the Narnians lost as their High King called out.

The sailors turned as one, bowing and scraping awkwardly toward the High King, still seated upon his horse, yet fingering the hilt to his famous sword. Rhindon, it was called in Narnia. Golden Terror, it was known as in Calormen.

"Your Majesty, O Golden One, you do us much honor with your presence," the shipwrecked sailors said as one, bowing and scraping once again.

The High King did not dignify this with a response. "You are Calormene sailors, and yet we do not recall seeing your faces at the Cair, explaining your presence in our little country."

The men gulped. One, particularly more courageous than the rest, stepped forward and, after giving the High King another bow, answered, "Your Graciousness, we are but mere humble Calormene sailors, abandoned in Narnia by unfortunate circumstances. We mean Your Majesty no disrespect by our presence in this lovely country, and only hope that you allow us to continue on our way in leaving it."

The High King lifted a skeptical brow. "And would it not be easier to leave our precious country with all haste by the ship with which you are familiar, rather than trudging through the mountains without resources?"

The man who had spoken before nodded at this. "Your words are most sensible, O Wise One," the High King flinched at the title which was no doubt used more in conjunction with his little brother, "And we would have done so, had our poor ship not been set upon by an enemy in our country's colors, and sunken just off the coast, where the Ocean meets this lovely Creek. We few were fortunate to escape the wreck with our lives, as others aboard were not so fortunate."

The High King, however compassionate he was rumored to be toward those in need, did not appear at all moved by the sailors' tale. "And what was the name of this ship, which you abandoned when it wrecked?"

The man gulped, disconcerted by his careless demeanor. "The _Riveiosa_ , Your Grace."

Then, at last, did the Calormene sailors get a reaction out of the High King of Narnia. First he flinched, and then paled, and then reddened with an anger that set fear into their hearts.

"And where is it that you think you are travelling toward, plowing across our country as you do?"

The men were suitably repentant as they told their tale; their ship, the _Riveiosa_ , had been attacked by another Calormene ship, though, when questioned on this, they could not explain why, and had sunk just off the coast of the Creek where they had found themselves run ashore, grateful for their very lives and falling into the creek on driftwood from the ship. Their master, Amin Tarkaan, had gone down with the ship, as several of them had seen his demise themselves, but were too worried for their own survival to pay it much heed at the time.

And then Peter leapt down from Philip, rushing forward and holding one of them at sword point before Oreius murmured something to the High King and he relented, if only for a moment.

"You had on board with you a captive, did you not?" one of the Narnians demanded then, and the sailors stiffened, as one.

"No, Your Graciousness, you must be mistaken," the man who had previously spoken said then, though his eyes betrayed him. The other men behind him nodded furtively. "There was no captive aboard our ship. She was a mere merchant vessel, not a war ship."

The High King paused at this, face paling as if this thought had not yet occurred to him and yet, now that it had, he didn't know what to do. He glanced back toward his general, and then at the sailors once more. As he did, the light caught on a flash of metal, and he spun, only to be greeted with the steel of a much weaker blade, as one of the sailors rushed forward to attack him.

One of his soldiers stepped forward, but the High King had merely to lift a hand, and he fell back once more; giving the High King this obvious outlet for his anger without question.

The blade of the sailor, brittle and old, snapped before the superior force of Rhindon, and the sailor gasped as it fell in two from his hands, falling to his knees before the High King in expectance of swift retribution.

The High King merely glared at him, before turning his attention to the rest.

"The next time one of you lies to us, or attempts to harm our royal personage as you undoubtedly harmed our brother's, We shall not be so forgiving," the High King snapped at the sailors, who stepped back as one.

"Where is our royal brother, King Edmund the Just?" the High King demanded icily, eyes filled with a familiar fire that boded ill for these sailors, even as he stepped forward once more, brandishing that familiar blade. "Where is he?"

The men glanced at each other nervously, and then looked with supplication toward the army behind the High King, but none of these bothered to come forward for their defense, standing still and silent as they waited, along with their High King, for news of the Just.

One of the men, but not the same as before, nervous, but perhaps less so than his compatriots, stepped forward then. "King Edmund the Just was aboard the _Riveiosa_ , Your Majesty. We all saw him, kept captive by our master, Amin Tarkaan."

"And?" the High King practically hissed.

"We...The Tarkaan wished to give him to the Tisroc, may he live forever, when we returned to Calormen. He kept him below deck at all times, and none of us saw him beyond that, while he was aboard the ship."

The High King visibly faltered at this revelation, before stepping forward, hand on his sword shaking. "Where is my brother?" he demanded, letting the royal 'we' slip in his desperation.

The man who had become a new spokesman for the group glanced back at his companions before murmuring nervously, "Your lordship, we were only following the orders of our lord, the Tarkaan, when your brother the young King was brought aboard our ship. We could do nothing else, and beg that you allow us sanctuary, here."

The High King sneered then, a look that better befitted the Tisroc than the Golden King of the North. "If you continue to refuse to tell us what became of him after your ship wrecked, you may rest assured that we will kill every last one of you."

The Narnians behind the King, when the Calormenes looked to them once more, only smiled coldly.

One of the men gulped, stepping forward, to the obvious horror of his shipmates. "Your Highness, the slave rowers were chained below, in the hold. The boy king was in a blocked off quarter, behind them, to ensure that he did not try to escape the Tarkaan."

The High King's face paled. "And, I take it, chained, as the slaves would have been?" His heart bled for these slaves, chained like animals below deck with no hope of freedom during the wreck of the ship, but his sole thoughts were of his brother.

The man nodded.

"And none of these slaves were freed from their chains, nor was my brother, when the ship went down?" he demanded, tone turning hot and angry once more, and the sailors shifted from foot to foot.

"Your Majesty..." the first spokesman tried, voice full of fear. "To do so would have endangered our own chances of escape."

Something behind the High King's eyes shifted; his normally open blue eyes hardened, and his grip on Rhindon tightened. "I see," he said coldly, in a voice that suggested otherwise.

"So, you have abandoned your master, Amin Tarkaan, and my brother, King Edmund, to the seas," the High King finally said, in a bland voice.

The Calormenes glanced nervously from him to the soldiers. "O Forgiving One, it was not our doing. This, this other ship..." they trailed off then, perhaps realizing that the High King was not interested in whatever tales they might weave, at this point.

"My brother is dead," he said softly. "And none of you bothered to help him, for fear of your own necks."

"Forgive me for saying so and thus sounding heartless in this, your time of grief, O Great One, but King Edmund the Just is not our King, and we were under no obligation to rescue him, rather than ourselves," the Calormenes all gaped at the one who had said this, realizing then that their lives were most certainly forfeit.

The High King's eyes blazed. "So you are cowards and willful murderers," he said, in a deceptively calm voice. "Very well. I have recently become acquainted with Calormene law, friends, and the punishment for such crimes in Tashbaan is far greater than the punishment for such crimes in Narnia. We are slightly more forgiving, here. Had you wished to be tried by Narnians, we might have merely sent you back to Calormene in disgrace." He smiled; it was a cold smile. "But then, you have just identified yourselves as loyal only to Calormen, have you not? And I would be remiss in not treating Calormen citizens in the same way that they should expect to be treated by the Tisroc himself."

The sailors exchanged glances, and then, as one, fell to their knees before the High King. "Your Gracious Majesty..." one of them tried, only to trail off when a sword fell at his feet.

It had been tossed, carelessly, by one of the soldiers standing behind the High King, at his command, and sat there for several moments longer before the Calormenes understood its purpose.

"Your Majesty..." another tried, only to be faced with another sword. And another. And another.

"You have the right to defend yourself," the High King told them, voice cold as ice. "If I were you, I would pick up a sword."

* * *

A soft, damp cloth padded against Edmund's forehead, and he moaned, leaning into the touch and reflecting that it had been so long since such a kind hand had touched him, had offered even the barest moment of comfort.

For a moment, he thought perhaps that this hand belonged to Susan, that he was back in Cair, safe and sound. That all this had been some horrible dream, but it was over now.

The pain hit him then. Terrible, aching pain that spread from his leg through his whole body quickly, and Edmund bit back a cry as it shuddered through him.

And then the voice attached to it purred, "Oh, you poor dear," and he opened his eyes, knowing that it didn't belong to Susan and choking down a bit of uneasiness when he realized it wasn't a hand, at all.

The rim of a cup was pressed against Edmund's lips, and he drank the foul substance within without thinking. It burned down his throat and then through his limbs, before settling comfortably in his stomach.

And, in an instant, the pain had faded.

A paw gently pushed him back into bed. "You're safe now, dear. Try to stay calm."

Edmund glanced around wildly, taking in his surroundings.

He was in a small hole in the ground, a burrow that had been made with painstaking care, if the roots fashioned into a thatched ceiling and the warm fireplace in the corner were any indication.

Beyond the small room that he now found himself in, Edmund thought he heard talking, a child's voice whispering excitedly.

He glanced back at his caretaker in some confusion.

She was a cat, a lovely spotted Wildcat with flashing green eyes, rather than the tame creatures which made their homes around Cair Paravel and had tea with Lucy whenever they could find the chance. Tall, with matted dark fur and claws that were disturbingly long, but the kind smile she sent Edmund more than made up for it.

They were not near Cair, if she was a Wildcat. Wildcats preferred the mountain regions, not the sea, and she would have made her burrow far from other animals, where she and her brood could rest unbothered.

"I have to..." he struggled to sit up once more, only to be pushed down again. "I need..."

"It's all right, dear," the Wildcat said gently, rubbing her paw across his forehead. "It's all right. You were injured quite badly when my Tony found you. Rest now."

And he did, pretending for a moment that this was Susan's voice, and that all was right with the world.

And perhaps it was, in that moment.

When he woke again, Edmund felt remarkably more lucid than the first time, and managed to pull himself into a sitting position before the Cat who had been caring for him returned to the little bedroom. She gasped in surprise at the sight of him, before setting down the bowl of hot water in her paws and moving to his side.

"Don't try to sit up just yet, dear," the Cat lectured, and Edmund sighed, falling back onto the pillows and wondering if this would never end. Why didn't Lucy simply bring out her cordial and heal him?

He groaned, as a sudden wave of pain and nausea rolled through him, and then a soft paw was pressing against his forehead, warm and cool and oh so soothing. He leaned into it, letting out a soft noise that he would deny later, and closing his eyes once more, willing the pain in his leg away.

He remembered now, as this cat paw touched him. Remembered the shipwreck, the bounty hunter, his leg injury, the dove. Everything.

Edmund's eyes shot open, and he glanced up suspiciously at his rescuer, this Cat.

She gave him a reassuring smile. "Feeling a little better, I take it?"

He merely groaned in response.

The Cat chuckled, softly. "You had quite the injury, Your Majesty. I was afraid, late last night, that you..." she shook herself. "Well, but there is no use focusing on what might have been. Are you up to taking some tea?"

Edmund blinked, suddenly finding himself very hungry, but he could do nothing more than nod, at the suggestion.

The Cat smiled. "Good, well that's good, at least. Wait here, and I'll go and fetch my Mr. Nantes to help you walk to the table."

He would have protested that he could walk to the table in the other room just fine, in that moment, if the Cat, Mrs. Nantes, he supposed, did not scurry from the room before he had the chance to do so.

When she was gone, he peeled off the ragged blanket covering him, shivered as the air made contact with his skin, and then glanced down at his injured leg.

Mrs. Nantes had placed a leaf overtop the area where the arrow had entered his body, and this Edmund peeled off as well, with it coming a fair amount of pus and blood and something else that Lucy would have likely been able to identify as a healing poultice, but which he could not.

It looked horrid, and, after only a moment of looking, Edmund was overcome with the urge to gag. The wound had festered, in the nights since he'd received it, despite his saviors' best efforts, and now stood out awkwardly against his skin, a myriad of colors that it should not have been.

A new Cat entered the room, Mr. Nantes, Edmund assumed, and he quickly replaced the poultice covered leaf before he could receive a lecture for it; an act ingrained in him over many years, by both Susan and Lucy's fussing.

Mr. Nantes was not so pretty as his wife, but, despite his gruff nature, was gentle enough in helping Edmund into the hall and yet another room in the burrow, allowing Edmund to lean heavily on him, though the young king knew that he must have been heavy for the Cat.

Eventually, step by careful step, they made it to the kitchen, where Mrs. Nantes was carefully preparing tea over a boiling stove, and the little kitten that Edmund vaguely remembered seeing, before he had collapsed in front of it, sat on the table, glancing up excitedly as Edmund entered.

"King Edmund!" he squealed, dashing forward and tipping over the small bowl of cream at the table.

"Tony!" Mrs. Nantes cried, spinning around and setting the bowl upright before sopping up the bit of cream which had spilled from it. Edmund had a feeling that she did this before Tony could lap it up with his tongue, as he looked very willing to do so. "What have I told you about standing on the table? Get down at once."

Tony, a dejected look in his eyes, slunk down from the table and settled himself on one of the cushions surrounding it, just as Mr. Nantes helped Edmund down beside the little kitten, atop a comfortable cushion, and Edmund propped his injured leg up on the one next to him. It hurt, he noted then, with only a fraction of the pain he'd felt before.

Tony turned to Edmund with wide, curious eyes. "Is it true that, at Cair Par-a-vel, the Cats drink out of silver bowls?" he asked then, and Edmund had to admit, this had not been the question he was expecting, even as he pretended not to notice Tony slinking closer and closer to him in curiosity, nearly falling off his own cushion as he did so.

With it came several more, at a dizzying pace, before Mrs. Nantes finally rescued him by bringing forth the tea and small cakes, setting them on the table and sitting across from Edmund, beside Mr. Nantes, who was giving little Tony a disapproving look, for all of his questions.

Edmund did not think he would ever be so pleased to have tea with a family of cats as he was in that instant. Aslan knew that Susan and Lucy had dragged him to enough tea parties for a lifetime, and yet he smiled as Mrs. Nantes placed a small china cup in front of him and asked whether he preferred milk or sugar.

He rather hoped that she had not seen fit to give him a spit bath, at that.

Mrs. Nantes leaned forward, paws gripping the tea pot tightly as she poured some more chamomile into Edmund's cup with a glittering smile.

"Oh, that's enough, thank you," Edmund said, just before the cup might have overflowed, his thoughts hardly on the situation at hand.

Her son, about the size of Edmund's hand, curled up at his side and let out a long purr, and Edmund couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up within him at the sound, Mr. and Mrs. Nantes quickly following when they realized that their young King was not offended by it.

"Tell me, Your Majesty, what are you doing so far from home?" Mrs. Nantes asked, voice dripping with sympathy even as she licked at her own cup of tea.

Mr. Nantes was gone now, gathering more wood for the fire, and Edmund had to amuse himself with only Mrs. Nantes' company, for, though she was a sweet creature, she could not seem to satisfy herself with finding out as much as she could about the young king, and, though he could see no harm in it, Edmund was rapidly growing tired of the questions that he was unsure if he should answer without knowing what was happening in Cair even now.

Leaving this kind family to return to Cair might prove itself awry if they announced to the countryside with the same fervor that Mrs. Nantes used in pouring tea that the ghost of King Edmund the Just had visited them for tea and biscuits just that afternoon.

Of course, he wouldn't get far on this leg, at any rate. He would have to wait a little while, at least until his leg healed enough to walk.

Perhaps he could send a message to his siblings, through the trees, to let them know he was all right.

Well, alive.

"I...was travelling for a bit," he said, reasonably assured that the news of his death had not yet reached this family of cats. After all, they had not seemed too shocked to see him, as they might have been if they were just mourning his passing.

"And what of the news that the White Witch was resurrected?" Mr. Nantes demanded then, bowing even as he re-entered the hovel and nearly dropping his firewood in the process. "Is there truth in that?"

Edmund swallowed. "There is." Mr. and Mrs. Nantes gasped at these words, nearly waking their slumbering son, who let out a soft noise of distress before burrowing into Edmund's side once again, silent and calm as before.

Edmund felt a moment of jealousy then, that little Tony could find such solace in slumber when he had not been able to for five years now.

"But she was vanquished," he assured them, feeling almost guilty at the looks of relief on their faces, and hoping that they would not ask him how it was so, for he had no desire to lie to them, and did not know the truth himself. Only that Susan and his siblings were back at Cair, the snow was gone, and a lightness now filled the air which had been gone while the White Witch lived amongst them.

But fortunately, they did not ask, perhaps seeing the haunted look in their young king's eyes and mistaking it as answer enough.

He had a sneaking suspicion as to the truth himself, as the dream he'd had, the one that might not have entirely been a dream, though he wasn't sure of that now, filtered through his mind. Of Aslan, and that dove.

For surely the death of the White Witch meant that Aslan had returned to Narnia once more, and vanquished her himself. Surely the Calormene ship that had crashed into the _Riveiosa_ , allowing Edmund to escape his captors, had done so at the hand of Aslan. And was even now residing at Cair Paravel, with all three of siblings.

And he didn't understand why that knowledge hurt, until the slight bit of jealousy he felt toward little Tony's slumber hit him.

That he was here, injured and washed ashore, while Aslan had not yet come. While Peter had not yet come, at the very least, when surely Aslan knew where he was.

He brushed these morbid thoughts aside, suddenly aware that Mrs. Nantes had asked him a question which he had yet to answer.

"Sorry?" he asked, blushing a little at the look on Mrs. Nantes' face, as she glanced from him to little Tony, as if suddenly realizing how young their King was.

"Perhaps you should rest for now, Your Majesty," she said, not unkindly. "And let our questions until another time."

He blinked, finding her suggestion particularly appealing, and then, "But where shall I sleep?"

She smiled. "Have you forgotten already where your bed was, Your Majesty?"

Edmund blushed. "Well, I do not wish to impose-"

"Nonsense!" Mr. Nantes erupted then, sputtering some of the tea that Mrs. Nantes had poured for him. "We are Cats, Your Grace, and sleep just as comfortably in a pile with each other than in a bed. But you are a Man, and must sleep in a bed. Please."

Edmund gulped, aware that, at any other time, he would have refused once again out of principle, not wishing to steal these kindly creatures from their bed, but suddenly overcome with fatigue once more.

He stood to his feet, trying not to wake little Tony, and limped back to the bed, Mr. Nantes supporting him on one side.

* * *

Peter wiped off his gloved hand on the piece of cloth the cheetah beside him, Rahna, offered, without looking her in the eye, having no desire to meet with her accusing stare.

He dismissed her with a nod, ad Rahna practically fled the tent. He could not say he did not prefer the silence, in that moment.

He knew that what he had done was not right; that, though the Calormenes had stolen away his brother, using to their advantage the fact that all of Narnia thought him dead, it was not these sailors that he should be angry with.

The distinct fear that Aslan, that Edmund, would have been unhappy with him, had he known what Peter had just done, in a fit of anger, rested at the pit of his stomach, and Peter brushed a line of sweat from his forehead.

Edmund. This was all for Edmund, he reminded himself.

Edmund, who was now lying at the bottom of the sea, dead.

Somehow, this realization that his brother was truly dead hurt worse than the first time, when Peter had thought him dead upon the Stone Table. Perhaps it was because, this time, Edmund was truly dead.

His stomach hurt with the knowledge, bile never far from his tongue, and he felt that his heart would ache until the day he died.

Edmund was dead. Even Aslan, having returned to Narnia once more, or, at least, returned to Lucy once more, had not managed to bring him home.

No, Peter had thought himself capable of such a task, but only now realized how foolish he'd been.

Peter sighed, wiping his face on the bloody cloth before he could think better of it.

He did not know what to do. Edmund was dead, and marching on Calormen now seemed pointless, as he had told Oreius before retiring to his tent.

Half of him wanted to continue on, to bring such pain to Calormen as he now felt, for the death of Edmund. The other half was far too tired, and merely wanted to return home before another one of his siblings was forever lost.

Behind him, he could hear the distinct sounds of someone entering the tent. They said nothing, however, as if waiting for Peter's permission to do so, and suddenly Peter felt so tired. More so than he had ever thought anyone capable of feeling. He didn't bother turning around when he spoke.

"If you are here to lecture me on my actions against the Calormene sailors, General, you can leave now," Peter said coldly, instantly regretting the harsh words but unable to take them back in the next instant. "I don't care to hear them."

There was a snort from behind him. "I could go and fetch Oreius to do so, if His Majesty prefers," Philip said, in an oddly light voice, considering what had just happened.

Peter turned around with some surprise, the rag still in his hands. Still stained with blood. "What are you doing in here?"

Philip's long mane flapped through the small tent, nearly hitting Peter as it did so, and Peter got the impression that the Horse was shrugging, in his own way. "I came to see how you were. Oreius did not think that his...company would be wanted, just now."

Peter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering just when his own subjects had become scared of him.

"I'm fine, Philip," he muttered.

"Forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty, but you do not look it," Philip observed quietly.

Peter resisted the urge to let out another sigh, instead turning again to the Horse. "Were you always this contrary around my brother?" he demanded tiredly.

The Horse shrugged. "Your brother is...was not so hardheaded as you, Your Majesty, but yes, when it is needed."

Peter guffawed, not certain whether to be amused or offended.

Philip let out a long sigh. "I am not going to lecture you on what happened earlier, Your Majesty. You are the High King of Narnia, and I merely your brother's Horse. But I will tell you something you already know. Killing those men did not bring Edmund back."

"I know that," Peter whispered, voice hoarse, and he suddenly found himself unable to meet Philip's eyes. "I know that, but what should I have done? Nothing, so that Edmund was never avenged? Should I simply go back to Cair Paravel now, and let my brother lie in the sea?"

Philip tossed his mane in irritation. "What did Aslan say?"

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. "I do not know. Lucy told us nothing but what she announced in front of everyone, in front of that Wolf."

"He gave no advice for how to find King Edmund?" Philip asked incredulously.

Peter snorted hopelessly. "Perhaps he already knew we would be too late," he muttered.

"Then I would give you some advice of my own. Punish those who were responsible, my liege."

"The Witch is already dead," Peter bit out, "and still I don't feel sated."

Philip raised his eyes to meet Peter's, then. "I was not referring to the White Witch, Your Majesty. We rode out to make war on Calormen, for stealing away our Just King. We cannot get him back now, but we can punish Calormen for ever daring to take him in the first place." His eyes narrowed. "For your sisters' sakes, should they ever try such a thing again."

Peter was silent for only a moment. Then, "Call the War Council together again."

The War Council was already assembled, as Peter soon learned, and waiting in the tent meant for Oreius. Philip led him there, and Peter was a little ashamed to see the way his own subjects, members of his military, seemed to stiffen at the sight of him. All save for Oreius, who only gave him a look that seemed to convey all of the disappointment that Lucy and Edmund would have expressed.

Peter sank into an empty chair, the only one in the tent, and pinched the bridge of his nose again, suddenly feeling very tired. "We will not retreat now. Calormen has stolen our royal brother from us, and, even if there is no getting him back, we will not see his sacrifice forgotten so easily."

The creatures around him nodded, finding this new plan, if not sensible, then at least agreeable, to some extent.

"But who was that other ship, the ones the...sailors claimed attacked the Riveiosa during the storm?" Philip asked suddenly, and something about the way he said it made Peter think he had been waiting some time to do so.

"Who else knew that Edmund was on board, and that the Riveiosa was returning to Calormen with him?" Glenstorm demanded shortly. "This is Calormen's doing."

"No Calormene ship would have attacked another, this near to Narnian shores," Peter said dismissively.

Oreius raised a skeptical brow. "Unless the Tisroc had plans to make it appear as though the Narnians had done so, giving him an excuse for war."

"Or..." Eslania the Eagle offered tentatively, and then stopped as all eyes turned toward her. She blushed as Peter made a motion for her to continue. "If he was trying to clean up a mess. The Calormenes know well the..." she glanced nervously at Peter again, "the rage of the High King, whenever his brother is harmed. Perhaps the Tisroc learned that King Edmund was being brought back to Calormen and wished to avoid the embarrassment of another defeat, and did not think we already knew that King Edmund was...aboard the ship."

"Nonsense," Oreius said coolly. "The Tisroc is a proud monarch, and would not so openly admit fear of a small country like Narnia."

But Philip continued staring at Eslania, so hard she looked uncomfortable beneath that gaze, before finally saying, "No, he wouldn't openly admit fear of Narnia, which would give him just another reason to dispose of...any evidence as quickly as he could, if Eslania is correct." He glanced back at Peter, but the High King was no longer listening.

He stood pacing in the middle of the tent, running a shaking hand over greasy blond hair, before finally spinning back to them. His eyes were cold and dead and far too tired as he said, "Don't you see? It doesn't matter now. The Calormenes have slithered out of this as they do everything, with very little harm, and I will not allow them to get away with it again, not this time."


	27. War Rides a Red Horse

The sound of thumping hooves and battle cries awoke Edmund from the light nap he had found himself in, curled up with little Tony in front of the fire, his injured leg splayed out behind him. Mr. Nantes gave him a look of warning even as Edmund sat up and gently pushed Tony, who still slept soundly, off of him, reaching for the dagger Mahir had forced him to take before the man died, and wondering why Mr. Nantes would look so worried. His leg ached at the motions, and he struggled not to wince from the pain of it.

Despite Mrs. Nantes' healing herbs, he was not getting better, Edmund knew. His plans of returning to Cair as soon as possible were on hold, and, last night, he had considered sending a bird to let his siblings know he was all right, as the Nantes would not have been able to do such a thing easily, being Cats, before once again falling into a troubled sleep.

Then he remembered how fragile Narnia had been after Edmund had died, and his siblings had supposedly defeated the Witch. He had never heard word to the contrary, and had only assumed after they had all returned to Cair Paravel to mourn his passing that she was dead, but now a horrible feeling swept through him at the fear in Mr. Nantes' eyes as he stepped out of the little burrow to meet the approaching army.

Mrs. Nantes sent Edmund a frightened look before going to stand guard at the little door to their home, both of them listening with bated breaths to the words spoken just out of eyesight.

"Who goes there?" Mr. Nantes' voice, though more gruff than Edmund had heard before. Wary and cool.

Edmund's hand clenched around the knife.

"The High King approaches, along with his army," a voice said, and Edmund's eyes widened as he recognized that voice, even as he breathed a long sigh of relief.

The High King. His brother.

_"The Calormenes do not know him as the Magnificent King, as Narnia and other countries call the High King Peter. They know him as the Fire King, and with good reason, for the one time that he found his way into Calormen during the whole of the second year of his reign, there was indeed fire reigned down upon them, as though from Tash himself, for the kidnapping of the High King's brother, the Just King. They say in Calormen that when the Just King is harmed and the Fire King comes for him, and those who see his coming ignore it, they do so at their own peril, for fire and death follow."_

Edmund could remember that story, even now. Could remember how Lucy had been on the edge of her seat throughout the tale, listening in rapt attention, as it had been her first opportunity to do so, Peter and Susan claiming that she was too young to hear of such details before then, and unable to stop her from hearing them that night.

Could certainly remember the one who had told it, seated in the middle of Cair's greatest dining hall, during a rowdy banquet with the Galmanian ambassador and his fifteen daughters, all of whom had a wish for the High King's hand, though, at the time, Peter had hardly been of any more age than they.

The story teller was a little fawn, a nervous young fellow and one of Mr. Tumnus' distant cousins, about Edmund's own age and itching to prove himself to those gathered during the banquet with an exciting tale that was sure to get him remembered. And yet, with the first of his words, he had immortalized himself in the present company, making Edmund flush with embarrassment at the still-recent memory while the Galmanians shuddered and realized exactly whom they were up against in the young High King.

Needless to say, none of the Ambassador's daughters found their way into Peter's good graces, during that visit.

Edmund suspected that most of them were simply too terrified to flirt with either the Just King or his obviously protective brother, after the whole story had been told.

After the initial embarrassment of having the tale dragged out for the present company, Edmund could remember finding the whole affair rather amusing, especially when Susan had wondered aloud why all of the young Galmanian ladies preferred to stay in their quarters or only in the Queens' company for the remainder of their stay.

It had been one of the few times when foreign ladies had not bothered Edmund or his brother about marriages, and Edmund had often since considered telling the story to any of the other ladies who came to visit for that express purpose. Indeed, he would have done so more often if Susan had not threatened to separate him from Philip's "obviously corrupting company" if he continued to do so.

He hadn't taken her threat seriously, but he had stopped, for which she had been enormously grateful from then on.

Indeed, he had hardly thought of the Fire King until now, hearing that same fawn's voice, though deepened with age, just outside the little burrow.

His breath quickened as Edmund attempted to stumble to his feet, and Mrs. Nantes rushed to his side, muttering under her breath even as she supported his weight on her shoulder.

He let out a cry at the first use of his injured leg, nearly falling onto his knees, and would have done so if Mrs. Nantes were not beside him.

His brother was just outside, with an army, and Edmund could not even stand up to go to him. A wave of frustration rushed over him, and Edmund gritted his teeth to try again.

"He will be passing over Stormness Head, and his men may require supplies from your family and any neighbors you may have," the fawn continued, voice full of self-importance.

Edmund gulped. Why wasn't Mr. Nantes saying anything? Why didn't he mention that one of the Kings of Narnia was within his home?

And then Edmund remembered that not all creatures had a suspicious reason behind their actions, but that Mr. Nantes had never met with the full force of the Narnian cavalry, or what was left of it, before, and was likely too frightened to do much speaking.

"Of course," Mr. Nantes answered speedily. "Anything His Majesty requires that we may have to give, we would gladly do so. But-"

And then Edmund couldn't stand it any more, and he was rushing past the little wild cat, ignoring the pain in his leg as he did so, shoving aside the fawn that had come to his door, to stare to the North.

Seeing his brother crest over the hill on his Horse, on Philip, followed immediately by an abundance of soldiers Edmund hadn't thought Narnia would have, after their most recent war, was the most gratifying sight Edmund had managed in a long time, and he pushed aside Mrs. Nantes' worried gaze to rush out of the burrow.

The fawn who had been demanding help from Mr. Nantes jerked abruptly at the sight of the young king, lips parting in a silent, 'O' of surprise, before he found his voice. "Ki-Ki-King Ed-Edmund," he rasped out, and then glanced back toward the army, suddenly looking afraid, though Edmund couldn't imagine why.

Nor did he have the patience to do so, at the moment.

It felt like it had been years since Edmund had seen any of his siblings, even since those fleeting moments Edmund had managed to have with Peter and Susan during the battle against the Witch. And here was Peter, riding forward in full battle uniform, and Edmund could not imagine why.

Surely the Witch had been destroyed, for some part of him did not think he would have Awoken had she not been, and the green grass that replaced fields and fields of cold snow was rather telling.

So why was Peter riding to war?

"Peter!" Edmund called out, and then lost all sense of kingly dignity as he limped forward to greet his brother.

The High King stared down at him in shock for some moments, mouth parting in much the same way that the herald's had, slack with shock, before he finally slid down from his horse and rushed to meet him.

And as Edmund felt his brother's arms surround him, just as he thought he might collapse, he felt safe.

Behind them, the army that Peter had mustered went still, all staring in surprise at the sight of the two young kings, reuniting, and Edmund bit back a laugh, closing his eyes and burying his head in Peter's shoulder.

"Edmund," Peter breathed, finally pulling away, though he kept his hand on Edmund's shoulder, as if afraid to let go of him, and his eyes shone. "Ed...I thought...We thought you were dead. We thought-"

"It's all right, Pete," Edmund whispered, forcing himself to smile, and finding suddenly that it did not seem so hard to do so, now. "I'm here. I'm all right."

Peter blinked, and yes, those were tears, as Edmund had thought. "But...how?"

Edmund shrugged. "Aslan," he whispered, as if that explained everything, and, in that moment, it did.

Peter let out a long, shaky sigh. "If He hadn't appeared to Lucy, told us to go and look for you, I don't know that we would have believed that Wolf. I don't know what we would have done, what Narnia would have done..." he trailed off again, giving Edmund a hard look as he finally assessed his brother's injuries.

"You're injured," he said finally, sounding rather angry that Edmund had not mentioned it immediately, though Edmund was not certain that this anger was entirely directed at him.

Edmund blinked, suddenly remembering his leg, and that he was mostly still leaning on Peter. "Oh," he said dumbly, and then his face flushed. "I...The Calormene warship that attacked us. I was injured."

Peter's eyes flashed again with anger, and Edmund suddenly understood. Understood who his brother was truly angry with, understood why he was leading an army across the South of Narnia.

He tensed. "Peter, no-"

"This is their fault, Ed," he muttered, eyes still glittering. "If they hadn't kidnapped you, hadn't made us think you were dead, hadn't sent another ship to kill you-"

And Edmund interrupted, before his brother's anger went too far again. "But I'm here now," he said softly. "I'm here, and I'll be fine once we get Lucy's cordial, you great goose, and so there's no reason to go to war now."

Peter turned on him incredulously. "No reason?" he echoed. "Edmund, you could have died..."

"But I didn't," Edmund reminded him. "Aslan made sure of that." He thought of saying something to lighten the mood then, something like, 'I'm not some girl for you to go off starting wars to defend me,' or something, but didn't think it would be appreciated, so he held his tongue.

In truth, Edmund was tired. He just wanted to go home, to Cair and to the rest of his siblings, where things made sense and he could eat real food and sleep for a week, if he could.

War would definite not be beneficial toward that plan of action.

"Edmund," Peter tried again, but had deflated somewhat in the wake of Edmund's words. "They kidnapped you, just like last time..."

"That was the act of one men, two, at the most," Edmund argued, "not all of Calormen. Obviously, or they wouldn't have sent a warship to make sure what happened last time Calormen kidnapped me didn't happen again."

He tried to sound light, but somehow failed spectacularly, and Peter's face darkened.

"If we'd lost you, lost you _again_..."

"I was never lost," Edmund told him, though not unkindly.

And Peter deflated then, though he still looked incredulous at Edmund's words. "But why? If we don't show our strength now, Calormen will think that this is all right to do again, and they _will_ do it again."

Edmund thought of Mahir, who had done all of this for the sole purpose of getting his sister back, no matter his faults in the past. Of Amin Tarkaan, who had only wanted his son, not Edmund, but had settled for this when he realized he could get nothing else.

For family.

"The guilty have already paid, Pete," he whispered into his brother's shoulder. "I just want to go home, please."

Peter stared at him for a moment, and finally nodded. "All right. All right, Ed, let's go home."

The girls were waiting for them when they returned to the Cair, along with several dozen Narnians there to see the return of their king, wondering why he had returned home so quickly, when they'd thought him off to war with Calormen, which would surely have been a more lengthy feat. The flags of the Four had been raised, Peter's a bit higher than the others, and the gates swung open to welcome an army home, though there seemed to be some confusion as to whether this was done in victory or defeat, or some other thing that had not yet been learned.

But then they saw their younger king, sitting astride Philip, alive and clearly not Calormen's prisoner, and this drew even more crowds, as word spread that the young Just King had been found and was finally home.

By the time they finally made it through the gates of Cair, it was difficult enough for Philip to simply maneuver through the Talking Beasts surrounding them, despite the army behind him, but they did manage their way to the palace entrance eventually, where Susan and Lucy were waiting atop a podium, along with half of the Narnian Court, all of them cheering as they saw their youngest king returned.

Edmund dismounted slowly, the wound of his leg still paining him, Peter climbing down behind him.

A wave of dizziness swept over the young king, and, as if anticipating this, Philip leaned forward, pressing his shoulder against Edmund's forehead to give him a moment's relief.

If the Horse noticed how heavily Edmund leaned into him, he did not acknowledge it beyond nudging his king's forehead, a reassurance. And somehow, it was enough.

Edmund straightened, feeling suddenly as if he could walk all the way back up to the palace on his own, but then Peter was by his side, taking his arm and practically dragging him the rest of the way.

Susan and Lucy were not able to wait that long, and, as the two kings made their slow ascent, Edmund suddenly found his arms full of two simultaneously crying and giggling girls.

And he couldn't have been happier to see them, in that moment. Thought perhaps he wanted to hear their laughter for the rest of his life.

Then Lucy let out a cry, looking down at Edmund's injured leg, and Susan began scolding him even as Lucy reached for her cordial and bade him drink it, Peter smirking behind him as the girls fussed, and Edmund thought that this was all right, too.

* * *

The celebrations lasted for hours, and, to be honest, Peter remembered very little of them other than his siblings' smile faces after his first sip of wine. Of Lucy, grinning as she tugged on Edmund's arm and pulled him into another dance, whispering into his ear words that made him chuckle, if not laugh. Of Susan, scooping larger portions of food onto Edmund's plate during the banquet, when she thought he wasn't looking, and smiling at his every word.

After weeks of seeing his sisters so burdened by everything that had happened, days of seeing their grieving, Peter had not thought he would ever see a genuine smile from them again.

And of Edmund, whole and very much alive, if a bit changed by his ordeal.

He had always been quiet; anyone who knew him knew as much, but now he was quieter still, and it was like pulling teeth to get him to say a few words during the banquet, and then during the continued celebrations which went on afterward. He would not speak of his time with the Witch at all, but recounted what happened afterwards, to the rapt attention of all gathered in Cair. Aslan had shown himself to the Just King, as well as the Valiant.

After this, it seemed, Edmund fell into a pensive silence, one that none tried to pull him from save Lucy, when she attempted to drag him out to the ball room. The others attending quickly followed, the music loud and boisterous.

And yet, Peter could not shake the feeling that there was something different about this Edmund, from the one he remembered, before all of this began. It was so striking now, in the safety of Cair, more so than it had been in a tent near Beruna.

Scars that would never fade away, no matter how hard Peter attempted to try and make them.

He found himself some wine after these thoughts, and managed to salvage his mood for the evening after a few glasses, dancing with Lucy and the dryads long after midnight. Even Susan joined in on the festivities, though several times he noticed her and Edmund standing off to the side, conversing with each other or with Narnians wishing to express to Edmund how happy they were to see him returned.

They were happy, all Four of them, and Peter even managed to take his eyes off of his returned brother for a while, to dance with the dryads and ladies of the Court without a thought, as the music trilled and swayed around them.

It was bliss, after everything. There had been no celebrations after the defeat of the Witch, and so this one felt like a celebration twice over; for the return of the Just King, alive, and the defeat of the White Witch and her army.

Nothing could have made it better, save for Aslan's presence, but Lucy was convinced that he would return, when the time was right.

Peter did not know what time it was when he finally looked around and found that the guest of honor had left the celebrations, nowhere to be seen.

His heart clenched fearfully at the realization that his brother had managed to slip away, _again_ , without his noticing. Hadn't that been, in part, what started this whole mess? What took Edmund away from them for so long?

He immediately sought out Susan, surprised to find her with a drink of her own in her hands, sipping at it daintily while talking with Mr. Tumnus, who looked altogether embarrassed, if his flushed cheeks were anything to go by.

"Peter," Susan greeted as he neared, voice higher than usual, and he glanced at her in concern before shaking his head and giving Mr. Tumnus a rueful smile. "You simply must try some of this, dear brother. It's positively..." she trailed off, brows furrowing as she searched for the right word, reminding Peter of his purpose in seeking her out.

"Where's Edmund?" he demanded, hoping that the desperation in his voice went unnoticed.

Susan blinked at him. "Edmund? Oh, he was exhausted, poor dear, so I told him to turn in early. Pity I can't turn in early these days..." she drifted off again, though this time, Peter was not so sure he liked the expression on her face as she took another sip of the wine.

Peter glanced at Mr. Tumnus, silently communicating his plea for the fawn to watch after his sister, even as he always watched after Lucy, before rushing off to Edmund's rooms. He told himself, as he nearly ran past the guards at each corner, that he was only being practical, after everything that had happened, to check on his brother before he himself turned in.

He didn't really want to admit the truth, that he was worried. That he would never stop worrying, not after this, about his younger brother.

That worry grew when he opened the doors to Edmund's chambers, peeking in to make certain that he was all right and finding nothing but a made bed, the room as untouched as it had been since Edmund's disappearance.

The worry in the pit of his stomach grew to something else then, and Peter, had anyone made comment on it, would have most certainly denied that his hands were shaking toward Rhindon.

He was gone. Edmund was gone. Again. She- Somehow, she had managed to see fit that Edmund would never return to them...

Peter spun toward the guard he'd had posted outside of Edmund's room, a spotted leopard.

"Where is he?" he demanded, trusting that he did not need to explain who 'he' was. Edmund's guard detail was on much higher alert now than they had ever been.

The leopard - Peter had yet to learn his name - eyed him. "The Just King passed by here some time ago, Your Majesty, but did not go in. I believe he was headed in the direction of Your Majesty's chambers."

Peter swallowed. "Oh. My thanks, Noble Leopard."

The creature flicked his tail, almost bashfully. "Of course, Your Majesty."

And then Peter was finding it very hard not to sprint to his own chambers, for Edmund hardly made a practice of going to them to sleep. Unless, awoken from another nightmare, he truly needed the safety of Peter's room.

In the beginning, after Jadis had been defeated for the first time, Edmund had spent almost every night in Peter's chambers, so much so that the older brother had had Edmund's bed moved in. The nightmares had faded, with time, and the Just King had managed to sleep in his own chambers from then on, only coming to Peter when he truly needed it, per Peter's insistence, though the High King always had a terrible suspicion that Edmund did not always come when he needed to.

He should have known that Edmund would go directly there when he retired for bed, after She had been defeated a second time. Of course he would.

And so it was with some surprise that Peter did not find Edmund in his chambers, when he finally made his way to them. He glanced around, fear knotting in his stomach at the sight of the empty, untouched rooms, and reached for Rhindon, hanging on the wall, before nearly sprinting back out into the hallway to find his brother.

This was just like last time, and Peter could no longer quell the terror within him.

Edmund was gone, Edmund was...

"Your Majesty!" a loud voice called, snapping him out of his troubled thoughts, and sounding for all the world as someone who had been trying to get Peter's attention for some time.

He spun around, and was met with Eslania, giving him a patient, and yet, at the same time, somewhat exasperated smile. "King Edmund sent me to find you, if you grew worried."

Peter gave her a thin smile. "Where is he?"

"He...he said he wished to be alone for a while, Your Majesty," she said, rather carefully omitting the answer.

"Please," and he did not care that his sword hand shook, nor that his eyes had misted over a little. "Please, I just need to see that he's all right."

Eslania hesitated a moment longer, before finally, looking regretful, she answered, "He went down to the tombs, to see the Archenlander...the one who was buried in his stead."

Peter bit his lip, all the blood washing from his face. "Why?" was the only word that would come out, once he finally found the strength to speak. Why in Aslan's name would Edmund want to go down there, to see the body which had caused his siblings such pain? Which had caused him such trouble, if only it had never been there so that his siblings had looked for him earlier.

"I did not ask, Your Majesty," Eslania said, looking almost affronted at the thought of her doing so. "I only did as he bid me, after guarding him on his way there."

"Is anyone with him now?" And there was the fear again, returned, strong as ever.

She pecked at her wings. "Of course, Your Majesty. I left one of the badgers who guard the tombs outside the door, so that he might have some privacy. He looked as though he...needed it."

And despite Eslania's warning words, despite Edmund's request that he be alone, Peter found himself descending the steps to the tombs where the Archenlander boy had been buried, feeling only the smallest amount of guilt as he passed the hall leading down to the dungeons on his way.

He was right to feel this nervousness, Peter told himself. After all, those dungeons, only a level of flooring away from the tombs, was where all of this had started, had it not? They were where Edmund had first vanished.

And he found himself rushing forward, practically running the last few steps to the room of tombs, only to find that, as Eslania had said, Edmund was fine.

Well, perhaps fine was not the right word, but he was there. Safe. Alive.

Edmund stood in front of the tomb where the monarchs had placed the young Archenlander whom they had mistaken for Edmund, staring down at it with such intensity that he did not even seem to notice Peter's entrance. His eyes were glazed over, hands reaching out as if he wished to move aside the glass encasing that separated him from the body, but was too afraid to do so.

His shoulders slumped in that moment, and Edmund closed his eyes, leaning against the glass with a tiredness that Peter didn't think anyone Edmund's age should have been capable of feeling.

But Peter couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped him at the sight of his safe brother, tired or not, and Edmund turned around at the sound of it.

He said nothing, though, only stared at Peter for a few moments before turning back to the body of the boy. And Peter found himself trudging forward on feet that must have been made of stone themselves, to stand beside his brother.

They stood in silence for a while, too long, Peter thought, but he didn't know what to say in that moment, didn't know if it was comfort Edmund sought or an explanation, and so he did not speak.

Edmund seemed quite content to let the silence hang in the air, tangible as it was, and keep staring at this Archenlander's body as if it held all the secret answers of the world.

"Lucy told me about him," Edmund said eventually, though Peter hadn't thought to ask that particular question.

"Oh," and Peter flushed when he realized how foolish this sounded. He was just about to say something else, though his mind had not truly formed the words, when Edmund surprised him by speaking again.

"What are we going to do with the body now?" Edmund asked, voice soft and vulnerable. "Lucy said that it was buried in my stead."

Peter shrugged.

He hadn't really thought of it, though, now that he did, he thought he remembered Susan and Lucy discussing it, the night before he had left to find Edmund. "Susan thinks we should let the body lay there, in a place of honor, because the boy must have died quite a gruesome death, and did not deserve to suffer in such a way. And besides, it would be cruel to take up his body out of such a tomb, when it has already been placed there, just because it does not belong to whom we thought it did. Dishonorable."

Edmund flinched. "Don't...don't leave it here. Send it back to his family in Archenland. They deserve to at least know what became of their child, and he deserves to be laid to rest in his homeland."

And Peter wondered, in that moment, if Edmund was thinking of his own predicament, what would have happened to his own body had he truly been lost at sea, never to be found by his own family.

He nodded. "I'll see to it." And then, because he couldn't hold back his curiosity a moment longer, "What are you doing down here, Ed?"

Edmund didn't answer for a while, and Peter found himself growing a bit worried again, before his little brother finally did speak, eyes haunted, chased by ghosts that were no doubt the reason he was not sleeping now.

"I went to your chambers, to try and sleep," he said, and it was only then that Peter saw the black rings underneath his eyes, the way his hands shook as they did whenever he was going on as little sleep as possible without collapsing.

The telltale signs of nightmares.

"Oh Edmund," Peter whispered hoarsely, and reached out to brush the hair from Edmund's eyes.

"Will it...will they never end?" Edmund asked hopelessly, and something in his tone made Peter want to wrap his arms around his brother tighter, never let him go. Afraid that if he did, Edmund would fade away once more. "She's dead, and yet still she haunts me."

"I don't know," Peter answered honestly, voice hoarse, and Edmund slumped in his arms once more, body radiating defeat. "I don't know, but I will be by your side through every one of them, Ed. I promise you that."

"I know," Edmund whispered, and thought that perhaps he could sleep that night without a single nightmare. Hoped so, at the very least.

He was wrong, but it was all right, because his big brother was there, and he was safe.


	28. How Nightmares Die

It was entirely by accident that they happened upon the awakening of the White Witch at all, and Edmund was sure that they would not have done so if not for the fact that the room which now held the Stone Table was the only place they had not yet gone in search of Caspian.

Edmund heard the eerie chanting from within at the same time Peter did, standing beside Lucy and the newly healed D.L.F. in some confusion after having watched Ginnabrik disappear after Prince Caspian. The dwarf had made no secret of his dislike for the young prince since their arrival, and so Edmund found it strange that Ginnabrik chose now to seek him out in comfort.

Peter, it seemed, did not have the same reservations. He was still too furious about the failed attack on the Telmarines, and Edmund wanted desperately to grab him _and_ Caspian, when they found the young prince, and knock their heads together.

He privately thought it would do them both some good, but that it should probably wait until after the upcoming battle, as the Narnian morale was already poor enough. Who knew how it would suffer watching King Edmund go at the High King and their newest Prince.

But the moment they heard the sound, both kings jerked toward the direction of the monument which now held the Stone Table, eyes locking in dread.

Without a word spoken, the two Kings raced down the cavern, Edmund grabbing his sword as the Narnians called after them worriedly. Behind him, Edmund could hear Trumpkin the dwarf heave a sigh, mutter about nothing ever just being all right, and shuffle after them.

Peter rushed into the room holding the Stone Table, sword at the ready. Then he froze.

Edmund was right behind him, so he managed to barrel into his older brother before glancing up and seeing with shock the sight before him. His jaw fell open and he instinctively tightened his grip on his Narnian sword.

Caspian stood in the middle of a circle of ice somehow ingrained in the stone floor, holding out a bleeding hand to the figure before him, her ice cage held blasphemously between the two stone pillars before the cracked Table.

No. Edmund had thought that last time had put an end to it.

He thought there was no more need to worry about something like this happening again. Aslan had promised that the Witch could harm them no longer in her death.

It was the one thing which got Edmund threw his nightmares, which had persisted even in their own world, that she was dead, that she could never harm him again.

But apparently Aslan hadn't anticipated this event.

Because between those stone pillars, encased in a layer of ice yet somehow able to move quite freely inside it, was the one person Edmund had been glad he would never see again on this, his second trip to Narnia.

The White Witch.

For a moment, Edmund feared that this was simply another one of his nightmares, another night horror that Pete or Lucy would wake him from at any moment, and that everything that had happened beforehand - the attack on the Telmarines, the slaughter - was only in his mind, as well.

But it felt too real, and Edmund had become adept, over the years, at distinguishing his nightmares from reality while he was in them, even if they often terrified him still.

He had thought this was over, that he would never have to see the wicked woman again. Edmund had thought she was defeated for the last time before, back during the Golden Age when Peter destroyed her. Aslan had said as much. So how was it that she was still haunting him, more than one thousand Narnian years later?

Images popped unbidden into his head: images of dark, icy dungeons and Turkish Delight, images of the last time Edmund had met the White Witch at the Stone Table. The sickly sweet smile she afforded Caspian was all too familiar, and Edmund shuddered at the sight of it.

Fortunately, Edmund did not have long to ponder on these images, for a strange werewolf creature that he felt certain he had seen before, a long time ago, attacked him, and he barely had time to bring his sword up in defense and duck before the creature would have sliced off his head.

They both went tumbling to the ground, Edmund flipping over a rock and just managing to keep from bashing his skull against it.

Behind him, he could hear Peter give a shout like a war cry before going after the hag-loathsome creatures, hags were, and Edmund didn't envy him his opponent. Then again, if what Susan had once told him was to be believed, Peter had plenty enough experience killing hags.

Trumpkin the dwarf went after Ginnabrik, Lucy joining them from out of nowhere a moment later, and the small battle raged on around the ice prison and Caspian, but the Witch ignored them completely, her eyes only on Caspian. Her prey.

Edmund glanced up once from his fight with the werewolf, and noticed the Prince just standing there, his sword discarded, holding his bleeding arm out stupidly to the White Witch as if he thought he could pull her through her prison but wasn't sure if he wanted to.

He seemed to be in some sort of a daze, and Edmund, noticing the expression on the Witch's face as she desperately reached out to the young prince, flinched in realization.

Oh.

So this was how it was done, her Awakening, the last time. This was why the boy had been needed, to free her.

Edmund paled as the werewolf came at him again, but he didn't have time for his fear, not now. He had to get over there, to _her_ , before Caspian did something horribly foolish.

The words of Ailyan the Wolf came crashing into his mind even as Edmund lifted his sword for the last time against the werewolf and brought it down on the creature's belly, effectively slicing him open. The werewolf let out a howl of pain even as he lunged forward in one last desperate attempt to bring Edmund down with him.

He was reminded of Ailyan's confession with that thought, and the blood drained from his face. For one insane moment, he thought he saw the now-dead werewolf grinning at him.

The werewolf fell on top of Edmund, pulling them both down behind the rocks, despite the fact that it was already dead, blood spurting onto Edmund's clothes. So it was that he didn't notice Lucy enter the room, but his thoughts were too far away to have noticed in the first place.

_"I...see what fools we were now, but then it was wretched. We lived like dumb beasts in the wild. None would accept us because of how faithfully we had served the Witch. I was among those who thought things would be better if only the White Witch could return and restore order. We thought you Four were causing the Chaos."_

Edmund jumped to his feet, pulling his sword from the werewolf's body and cleaning it off on his fur with an almost spiteful gesture, though he felt only pity for the creature. Then he turned to join the fray, taking stock of the situation.

Peter had successfully downed the hag, the creature lying on the ground in a pile of her own blood, and Ginnabrik the dwarf lay between Lucy and Trumpkin, no longer a threat.

Caspian still stood before the Ice Queen, hand held out dumbly, as if in a trance.

Peter noticed this at the same time that Edmund did, running toward the Prince.

" _How? It required a blood sacrifice, bringing her back to life. A drop of human blood. There was a boy, from Calormene."_

Peter shoved the confused Caspian aside and the prince fell to the ground with a small crash, that dazed expression never leaving his face. Then the High King turned on the White Witch, Rhindon held threateningly in her direction.

The Witch reared back in her cage at the sight of Peter, as if she had only just now noticed him, and then her features twisted, if only for a moment, into fear.

Edmund inwardly cheered at the sight, though a part of him felt an unreasonable envy. For he had heard the story plenty of times, how Peter had fought the White Witch, how Susan had defeated her, in the end.

He still had nightmares about her. Nightmares he could never seem to put out of his mind, not even in the Other World.

Some part of him always believed she was still alive. Could still torment him, or the nightmares would have faded by now, like all the others had.

The White Witch watched her one chance at salvation groan on the floor, but then she turned her eyes on Peter and smiled eerily, ignoring the sword pointed straight at her.

_"And there was a hag, chanting a strange song that somehow summoned Her. She held the Witch's knife."_

"Peter dear," she said, her voice smooth as silk, "I've missed you."

And Edmund would have snorted if his brother was not suddenly _listening_.

She reached out her hand through the ice, reaching desperately for him. Peter suddenly appeared unsure, took an unsteady step forward.

Edmund cursed his brother's stupidity in that moment, and _moved_. What in Aslan's name was he doing?

"Just one drop," the Witch coaxed, as Peter copied Caspian's earlier stance and the Witch reached through her ice cage for him.

Did no one else see what was really going on here? Was _Peter's_ doubt of Aslan so strong?

The Witch didn't care about the Telmarines; she didn't care about any one but those she could rule over.

Yes, she would probably be able to defeat the Telmarines with very little difficulty, but in the next moment she would turn and do the same to them.

All she wanted was her freedom, and she would do anything to get it. But the moment she was free...Edmund shuddered to think what she would do with that freedom. It had been rather difficult to get rid of her the last time, after all.

Of course, he hadn't been there. Peter had been the one to face the Witch down for everything she had done to them, had been the one to swing that sword. Susan had been the one to fire that last arrow.

Edmund was not going to let her get away from him a second time. He wasn't going to allow her the chance to keep tormenting him, not when he had here and now the chance to defeat her for himself.

Edmund hurried toward the icy cage, going around behind the rocks so that he would have the element of surprise.

And perhaps, if he was being brutally honest, also to avoid speaking with the White Witch, his tormentor, his enemy, if at all possible. If he had to face her again, at least he didn't have to speak with her.

That was always the worst part of his nightmares.

_"The werewolf, I don't know why he was there. He said he had waited for this moment for one thousand nights. That is all I remember of him, and that he was terrified of her when she was finally returned to herself."_

Edmund suddenly found himself standing behind the ice cage. Strange; from behind, it looked as though the Witch wasn't even there, didn't even exist. All he saw was blue ice, swimming about in the encasement, as if inside it was purely water, and, just barely, Pete and Caspian through the other side, both looking dazed and confused from his vantage point.

For a moment, Edmund let himself believe that was all there was. He felt oddly detached from the whole situation, as if he was looking on from one of those

_"We all were. We thought we were saving Narnia, only to doom it. Forgive me, my liege. I am at your mercy."_

Edmund lifted his sword silently, so as not to alert the Witch to his presence from behind. A thousand stray thoughts invaded his mind then.

_"Little Prince. Don't you like your Turkish Delight? Lashes with a whip, I believe. Oh, Edmund. You condemned me to a fate far worse than death. That boy shall die on the Stone Table. I wouldn't be so sure."_

Edmund lifted his sword high above his head, hands shaking for reasons he couldn't understand, and he was glad that she couldn't see him in that moment, glad that he couldn't see her. _Just do it!_ His mind shouted at him, but that only made his arms shake in sequence with his hands, and then his whole body was quivering.

What if this didn't destroy her? What if someone just kept bringing her back, over and over again? _What if she never left Edmund in peace?_

Edmund brought the sword flying downward, until it landed in the ice holding the Witch prisoner.

He wasn't entirely sure this would actually kill her rather than accidentally set her free, but the sight of Jadis enticing his brother to help her sickened him too much to let this go on for another moment.

How could Peter even be listening to her, after everything she had done? Had he lost so much faith in Aslan that he thought this was the only solution?

Edmund had to get rid of her. It was something he had regretted ever since both of her deaths; that he, though he should not crave vengeance, had not been given the opportunity to destroy her either time.

It wasn't revenge that caused him to raise his blade, caused him to break through the ice without a blink of remorse. No, for Edmund was not one for revenge, as he never found the good in it. No, this was something much different.

As his blade pressed against the ice prism, Edmund felt only a sense of inner peace, a sense of freedom that couldn't truly be explained. And he knew that, this time, she wouldn't be coming back in his nightmares to haunt him.

That this time, he, not Peter, not anyone else but maybe a bit of Aslan, giving him this sudden courage, would defeat her and would finally be granted freedom himself. This time, Edmund delivered the killing blow, casting her out, and she went.

The sword drove deep into the ice, cracking it from behind so deeply the sound reverberated through the cave that was really a tomb and, if Edmund hadn't been the cause, he'd have thought it was caving in.

He saw a part of the Witch then, her frightened expression through the ice, and then there was the sound of more ice cracking, splintering, breaking into dozens of huge shards that resembled blue glass.

There was a loud crashing sound as the ice all fell in a large pile at the bottom of the steps, and Edmund dared to open his eyes once more, sword still held in both hands above him.

Part of him had truly believed the White Witch would simply turn around and fight him then, without the ice hindering her.

He found himself staring back at Peter, crouched on the ground, who was watching him with a mixture of horror and appreciation, his eyes almost pitying as he realized what this had meant to Edmund.

Then there was Caspian, who stepped forward after the ice fell away stared at Edmund in bewilderment and a new appreciation. Lucy was behind them, grinning like the little girl she was when they had first entered Narnia. Grinning for Edmund, at this, his chance at victory.

Slowly, Edmund lowered the sword clenched in both his hands, still unbelieving that the Witch was actually gone.

This suddenly all felt so surreal, and he wanted to jump with glee. Or maybe throw up.

He glanced at Peter once more, hoping the prat had done with his delusions of grandeur by now, after this encounter with the Witch. They needed a High King who was level-headed right now, a High King from the time of the Golden Age, not the boy from England.

"I know," Edmund said, sounding a little more snappish than he had intended when he was met only with silence, his eyes lingering on Peter. "You had it sorted."

Peter's eyes widened as Edmund moved away from the icy pillars, sheathing his sword, free of blood, and making his way over to Lucy to make sure that she was all right.

He certainly didn't want to check on Peter, at that moment, too annoyed to care, as he was obviously fine enough to consider the Witch's offer.

What if the Witch returned again to plague him? What if she couldn't just stay down this time?

Then he would just keep fighting her, keep beating her back. Because, in the end, she had already lost long ago.

That night, the nightmares that had constantly plagued him since their first time in Narnia, since his time as the Witch's prisoner, did not come. He slept peacefully, a dreamless sleep full of a long sought after rest.

And his deep, even breaths calmed his brother as Peter lay beside him, worrying over the battle to come.

It was the first night that Peter could remember in Narnian years, as well as the year they had spent back in England, that he was not awoken by his brothers' haunting dreams.

For that night, at least, the nightmares were gone. And when the two brothers awoke in the morning, Edmund, refreshed and suddenly feeling quite calm about the battle they had yet to face, reflected that this was the best night's sleep he'd ever had.

Nor did the nightmares come again.


	29. Kareema

I.

The desert was a cruel and unusual place, filled with bleak nothingness and visions of everything one did not wish to see.

Kareema had heard rumors that it was a place cursed once, long ago, by the great Tash himself, cursed so as not to suffer fools wishing to go to the wicked, barbarian lands of the North, to convince them to stay in Calormen, where they belonged.

Now that she faced the full onslaught of the Great Desert herself, she almost believed them.

She did not know how many days she labored on foot in the desert, did not know if she would ever see an end to it, after a time, or if she was merely walking in circles to her death.

She dreamt of her brother. He was calling for her, and she followed his voice because she knew that it would lead her home. Or free, whichever came first. She thought, several times, that she might die out in this desert, and thought that this was a sort of freedom, as well, for at least she would die on her own terms, and not in the harem of the man who used her to control her brother.

There was a strange sort of satisfaction to be gained from that thought, and it forced Kareema to ignore the burning thirst in her throat, once her water skin ran dry, or the ache of hunger in her belly, once she'd eaten the last of her provisions and begun digging beneath the sand to lick up the salt there, and she continued on.

And at long last, she found water.

The little old man who lived alone on the edge of the desert was reluctant to engage her in any sort of conversation, she realized, soon after he invited her into his home. He justified this with the knowledge that the last Calormene to enter his home had abused him sorely, and he found it rather difficult to trust her now. And, indeed, he still had scars from that time, she noticed, lining his face in a pattern that was not entirely unfamiliar to her.

But still, he offered her food and water, and told her of the North, and how she might live happily there. And eventually, he seemed to understand that she meant him no harm and gave her supplies and directions to Anvard, where she might petition the King, who thought kindly of anyone in need, for sanctuary, should her master come looking for her.

She left when he offered her a look into the deep pool from which she had first drank. He was likely insane, after all, living in isolation in the desert, but even if he wasn't, she was not sure that she wanted to see what went on in the rest of the world.

* * *

II.

It had been two months since the fateful events which led to the White Witch's resurrection and everything after, and yet the nightmare of her small renewed time in Narnia had not yet left those lands. There were those who said that it never would, despite the peace treaty now between the Fell Creatures and the Four who sat upon Cair Paravel, and all the clean up which had been done in between.

It was with this in mind that Queen Susan begged her younger brother come with her, when she decided on a spur of the moment to travel to Calormen; officially to reestablish the peace treaty between their two countries after the fatal incident of the _Riveiosa_ , so as to avoid the war that Peter so desperately wanted and the Tisroc so desperately did not, but more likely the truth, as she refused to go by ship and insisted on travelling through Anvard to see Prince Corin first, an elaborate plot to get Edmund out of the country which left him nightly with night terrors, for a little while.

At first, she asked that Edmund travel with her as far as Archenland, not entirely sure herself that he was ready for a trip to Calormen, so soon after everything that had happened, but she should have known that Edmund would be far too stubborn to leave her to the mercy of the Tisroc by herself, and had insisted on coming the rest of the way, as well.

Calormen blamed Narnia for the shipwreck of the _Riveiosa_ , and Narnia, without the testimony of the Calormene sailors, had no proof that a Calormene warship had taken it down, but knew that it had, nonetheless. It was, perhaps, not the most peaceful situation to drag Edmund into, but Susan, unlike Peter, was no longer worried that the Tisroc would let anything happen to Edmund while he stayed there, now that he was most definitely alive.

He had downed one of his own ships to ensure that no harm came to Edmund which would be placed at his own feet, after all.

Besides, they had brought a small army along with them, to ensure Edmund's safety, as well as her own, including a small troop of Eagles, just in case.

Perhaps the time away would do him good, she believed, as Susan the Gentle could not bear to see her brother look upon the wastelands of Narnia to the North with such haunting in his eyes.

This was what she told High King Peter, when he looked at her with eyes full of such wounded betrayal that she almost wanted to retract her invitation immediately, and let Edmund stay with the safety of his brother and Narnia.

Almost.

Peter had looked none too pleased by her words, but Edmund had jumped at the chance to get away, if only for a little while; so quickly, in fact, that Susan was rather concerned.

Peter had turned his wounded look to Edmund as well, then, but Edmund, not so easily swayed by Peter's moods as Susan appeared to be, merely gave him a look and the promise that he would be in no trouble, and the High King backed down with surprising grace.

Susan would never understand her brothers.

Perhaps, she reflected, as she and Edmund finally left Narnia's borders, secure in the hands of their other siblings, it would do them both some good. And when they returned, neither would be so unhappy to do so; to come back to the place which reminded them of their frequent nightmares.

They did not speak to each other of what haunted their sleep, Susan and Edmund. Though Susan was aware that Edmund sometimes confided in Peter as she did in Lucy, never to each other. They did not need to.

For both dreamt of the same specter; Edmund of said creature stabbing a blade through his heart, Susan of stabbing a blade into the White Witch's heart and waking with blood on her hands.

She was not entirely certain who had the worst of it, though, by the dark circles that hung beneath Edmund's eyes every morning, she suspected that this was her brother.

She did not regret killing the Witch, as Edmund regretted going down into the dungeons to meet the hag, magically induced to do so or not, and yet, every night that she dreamt of that moment, she wondered why she had not allowed Peter to take the killing blow. It would have been easier, to do so, and would not have left such blood on Susan's hands, staining them with the evil that was the White Witch.

Or so her dreams told her.

In her heart, she knew that she had done it for Edmund, in the same way that Peter had almost started another war for him, even with Narnia's resources thin as they were from her most recent attack, in the same way that Lucy had spent so many sleepless nights in the library, searching for a way to bring him back home.

"Su?" Edmund's voice broke through her thoughts, and Susan the Gentle forced herself to look up and smile in Edmund's direction.

Every time she looked at him, these days, she could not help but wonder what on earth had possessed her to think that the boy in the crypt was her brother, why she had not believed Lucy.

This was Edmund. This glowing, if a bit too skinny, boy sitting across from her and glancing up from his newest book; not the dead child in the crypt, covered in blood and horror.

They looked nothing alike. Edmund, so full of life and a wisdom that sometimes made him look sad, with his bright eyes and pale cheeks, was not the sallow, pale boy they had mistaken for him on the Stone Table, brown hair so matted by blood so as to appear black, face a little too full to be her Edmund, who never ate more than a bird to begin with.

"Yes?" she smiled.

Edmund frowned at her. "Are you quite all right?"

Susan shook herself. "I'm fine, Ed. What is it?"

Edmund shrugged, glancing out the window of their carriage. "Only that we're almost there. Do you want to see Prince Corin first, and skip the formalities, or go straight to the throne room and deal with the tedious greetings of every noble in Archenland?"

Susan laughed; it was the first time she could remember doing so since this whole mess started. "I think I know which you would rather. Anything to get out of standing before a full Court for several hours on end. Formalities are not so gruesome for me as they always seem to be for you."

Edmund flushed. "Yes...well..."

Susan snorted; a very unladylike sound that had one of her ladies, a dryad named Doyna, gasp in surprise. "To Prince Corin it is, then. I have missed that little troublemaker, since last we came to visit. And I'm sure he's had much to occupy himself with, since. Of course, I shall have to then come up with some plausible reason for our missing the assemblage at Court."

Edmund smiled. "I'm sure you will manage, Sister."

As it turned out, Prince Corin was just as excited to see them as Edmund was at the thought of getting out of being introduced at Court. He dragged Susan about the castle with him, showing off every new toy he had gotten since they had last seen each other, including the sword that Edmund had sent him, some months ago, for his nameday, and filling her in on all of the news of Archenland, in his own way.

And so it was left to Edmund to explain their absence from the introductions to Court to King Lune at the supper table, when Corin begged that Susan eat at the Small Table, with him, much to the Just King's chagrin leaving him alone with the other nobles.

King Lune found the whole thing highly amusing.

* * *

III.

The Calormene woman looked out of place in the little village, her tanned skin so different from the pale, freckled faces all about her, and so Edmund noticed her immediately.

It was not so strange a sight in Anvard, for a few fortunate Calormene slaves managed to smuggle or ride their way into Archenland a year, and had set up their own little community, Edmund understood, in Anvard, under the sanctuary of the King. But they very rarely were found anywhere else in the country.

It seemed strange to him, that a Calormene woman would be so welcome in this particular village, on the border of the Great Desert, a victim of a Calormene attack several years ago. The people seemed to harbor a great anger toward Calormen still, and yet this woman was as one of their own.

It was entirely by coincidence that he did so at all, for Susan had insisted that they go down into the village so that she might peruse the cloths there, as little Prince Corin needed a new fitting and would not submit to it unless Susan promised to pick out the colors herself, and Susan, or so she claimed, needed a few new robes in the Archenland style, as well.

Edmund, naturally, had been dragged along as well. Susan seemed to be under the impression that he could do with a fitting as well as Corin, but that he could also pick out his own colors for just such an occasion.

He would have gladly left such things to Susan, for she was far more skilled at picking out colors and sizes than he, and would have done so had he not been plagued by Madame Leena, who was quite eager to make his acquaintance, and keep it for the majority of their stay in Anvard.

And so Edmund had found himself trudging through Anvard along wearily behind Susan, and when she declared that the colors of the city market were simply not good enough, though he suspected this had more to do with the fact that she was enjoying herself than the quality of the wares, and that they must go to an outlying village which was rumored to supply better pigments, he supposed he should not have been surprised.

Here was his older sister, entirely in her element for the first time since the return of the White Witch.

So, despite his ire at the fact that a simple trip to the market had turned into an all day excursion, Edmund could not bring himself to complain even once.

Not aloud, anyway.

"Come, Ed, this is the best seamstress in all of Archenland; surely there must be something here to catch your eye?" Susan asked with a teasing smile, and Edmund glanced up at his sister, startled.

Susan laughed brightly, turning to the seamstress with a conspiratorial wink. "Men," she muttered, and the woman laughed, though hers sounded somewhat more nervous than Susan's.

Then the seamstress turned to Edmund, suggesting a forest green cloak that didn't look any different from the one he was currently wearing, in Edmund's opinion, but which Susan at once fawned over, insisting they buy.

Edmund sighed, pulling out his purse full of gold, and handed over the amount required, finally looking up to meet this Calormene woman's eyes.

In truth, Edmund had not thought of his promise to the bounty hunter Mahir, on that boulder when they both thought themselves near death, since making it. He felt somewhat ashamed for it, now, looking at this woman.

She was not beautiful, by any means, but she held a certain charm about her that all Calormene women seemed to, and was passionate about her work, though there was a haunted look in her eyes which, now that he was looking at her, Edmund recognized as something akin to what he saw in his own eyes, every day he looked in a mirror.

But it was not these things which he noticed first about the seamstress, and, indeed, they seemed to pale in comparison.

She looked so like Mahir that he wondered if they had been twins, though, if they had, he doubted the enigmatic man would have mentioned it.

He felt the breath leave his body at the sight of her, almost expected her to morph before his very eyes into the bounty hunter, and suddenly Susan was touching his elbow, eyes full of concern.

"Edmund?" she whispered, and he shook his head to clear it, handing the seamstress the bag of gold and refraining from looking at her again.

Surely it was a coincidence. The Ambassador had told Mahir that his sister had escaped his hold, but what were the odds of her being here, of her sewing Edmund's clothes while he happened to be on his way to Tashbaan?

* * *

IV.

She dropped to her knees before the young king, uncertain if she were supposed to curtsey or not in this situation. A Calormene lord would have required it, but she had little experience around the barbarian lords of the north, the people she associated with here mostly of the noble line of peasantry, as she preferred it, and had heard strange enough things about these barbarians that she was not so certain.

"Our royal sister requires another lady to accompany us on our journey to Tashbaan," the Just King said, and Kareema blinked in surprise, wondering why he had would share such information with her.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she heard herself say weakly, and wondered if she were going to die today. She knew enough about the land neighboring Archenland to know that the Four were not so fickle as the Tisroc, but understood well enough the fickleness of Kings and Queens.

"She wishes for this ladies to be a native of Calormen, so that she can better understand Calormene customs and learn more about its people without upsetting anyone whilst she is there. His Majesty King Lune has spoken to us of your morality and past in Calormen." His eyes narrowed. "Would you be willing to take up this position, knowing that you may not return to this village in the end, but accompany our royal sister back to Cair Paravel, as one of her ladies, should your service please her? You may rest assured that, while in Calormen, you will be under our protection."

For a moment, Kareema thought her heart had stopped. She nearly refused, even if doing so could get her into a great deal of trouble, as she did not know these monarchs and did not wish to incur their wrath, as she had never wished to return to Tashbaan again.

But then she remembered that the Tarkaan who had been her master was dead now, died on a ship bound from Narnia, a ship that all had heard about in Anvard, as the sinking of it was rumored to have been done by the Narnians themselves, and had certainly made matters tense between the Northern countries and the South.

She had not celebrated on that day, however, for, glad as she was to know that the man would never be able to find her, Kareema had felt a hole in her heart that day, had felt a part of her die, too, and she knew without having to ask, for she did not know whom she might have asked, that her brother had been on that ship.

There was nothing for her in Tashbaan, but there was also nothing there to hurt her again. And suddenly, a part of her wanted to know what that would _feel_ like, what it would look like to her, an escaped slave, as free in her homeland as anyone else.

From far away, she heard herself answering shakily, "It would be my honor, Your Highness."

"What is your name?" the Queen asked, voice kind and gentle beside her brother's more gruff baritones.

Kareema chanced to look up in that moment, encouraged by the Gentle Queen's smile. "Kareema, Your Royal Highness."

And, that day, the Narnian delegation to Calormen gained a helpful voice, and the Gentle Queen a kind friend. And when they returned from Calormen completely unscathed, Kareema in toe, and, it must be said, mostly responsible for this, considering the concessions that had been demanded of Calormen on behalf of the High King, none were more relieved than High King Peter himself.


End file.
